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. •.(v,\Sk 


POPULAR NOVELS. 


T.I 


MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. 


T KMPEST AKD SUNSHINE. ' 

English Orphans. 
Homestead on Hillside. 
’Lena Rivers. 

Meadow Brook. 

Dora Deane. 

Cousin Maude. 

Marian Grey. 

Edith Lyle. 

Daisy 'J’hornton 
Chateau d’Or. 

Queenie Hetherton. 
Bessie’s Eortune. 
Marguerite {New). 


Darkness and Daylight. 
Hugh Worthington. 
Cameron Pridji. 

Rose MAther. 

Ethelyn’s Mistake. 
Milbank. 

Edna Browning. 

West Lawn. 

IMildred. 

Forrest House. 

]\I ADELINE. 

Christmas Stories. 
Grexchen. 


“ Mrs Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating 
writer. Her books are alwa3 S entertaining, anti she 
has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy 
and affections of her readers, and ol hold- 
ing their attention to her pages with 
deep and absorbing interest.” 


All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 
each. Sold everj’where, atid sent free 
by mail on receipt of price. 


G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, [ 

successor to 

G. W. CAllLETON & CO., New York. 



I 


V 

i 



) 

I^r6/ 1^14 


^ OSc- (M a 


9> 

TBl BOLDIlBf LITIMO 
An> 

S|l |R.tBiot5 o! t\t itlBl» 

THIS 8TOBT OV THX VAB 

n aKATKTULLT dhobobd ss 

THl irTHOl 


Xbowb OonAAE, Brookport, H. T. 
April, 186t. 


'R<^ , 

L 




I 

* 



« 


• ' 4 


I 


\ 

t . 



CONTENTS. 


miT. waom 

L — Thi WiB Meetino .. 8 

n. — Bose and Annie 20 

in. — T he Depaetuke 36 

IV. — Well and Brotheb Tom 60 

V. — Jimmie .• 67 

VI. — Finding Somethinq to do fob the Wab 81 

Vn. — T he Battle 87 

VUL — The Retreat 98 

IX. — The Rebel and the Yankee Ill 

X. — News of the Battle at liocKLAND 121 

XI. — The Wounded Soldieb 134 

XTT. — Gettinq Ready 142 

XTTT. — The Dying Soldiee 150 

XrV. — M atters in Rockland 158 

XV. — The Deserter 165 

XVL — News Direct from Jimmie 179 

XVII. — The Confederate Soldebe’s welcome to Rock- 
land 191 

XVHL —The Richmond Captivks 208 

XIX — Tom’s Reception 224 

XX. — At the Mather Mansion 248 

XXL— “Not long for this World.” 2.5‘.l 

XXII. —The Wounded Soldier 269 

XXIII.— Tom and Jimmie ‘283 

XXIV.— The Results of the Battle 


COOTKNT& 


CHAP. PAGB 

XXV. — Getttsbubgh 292 

XXVL — CouBSE OF Events 296 

XXVJX — The Huntep Soldieb 304 

XXVrn.— The Dead A-ltve 318 

XXIX. — The Heeoine of the Mountain 322 

XXX. — Aethub and Matoe 337 

XXXL — Maude and Tom 343 

XXXIL'— Suspicion 353 

XXXHL— In the Cave 359 

XXXIV.— PooB Abthue 368 

XXXV.— The Dead and the Livino 373 

XXXVI. — ANDEESONVILLii pBlriCNEJUS 377 

XXXVEL — In Kockland 385 

XXXVJJLL — The Lov^m 992 

XXXIl. — OSABLA 592 


ROSE MATHER. 


CHAPTER L 


THE WAB MEETING. 

IHE long disputed point as to whether the South 
tvas in earnest or not was settled, and through 
^ Northern States the tidings flew that Sumtei 
1 ad fallen and the war had commenced. With the first 
gun which boomed across the waters of Charleston bay, 
it was ushered in, and they who had cried, “Peace I 
j»eace !” found at last “there was no peace.” Tnen, and 
not tni then, did the nation rise from its lethargic slum- 
ber and shake off the delusion with which it had so long 
been bound. Political differences were forgotten. Re- 
publicans and Democrats struck the friendly hand, pulse 
b< at to pulse, heart throbbed to heart, and the watch- 
word everywhere was, “ The Union forever.” Through- 
out the length and breadth of the land were true, loya» 
hearts, and as at Rhoderic Dhu’s command the High- 
landers sprang to view from every clump of heather on 
the wild moors of Scotland, so when the war-cry came 
np fr’om Sumter our own Highlanders arose, a mighty 
host, responsive to the call; some from New England’s 
templed hills, with hands inured to toil, and hearts ac 


10 


BOSE MATHER. 


etrong and true as flint; some from the Empire, some 
the Keystone State, and others from the prairies ol 
the distant West. It mattered not what place had given 
them birth; it mattered little whether the Green Moun- 
tains of Vermont, the granite hiUs of New Hampshire, or 
the shadowy forests of Wisconsin had sheltered their 
childhood’s home; united in one cause they rallied round 
the Stars and Stripes, and went forth to meet, not a 
foreign foe, out alas, to raise a brother’s arm against 
another brother’s arm in that most dreadful of aU anar- 
chies, a national civil war. 

In the usually quiej} village of Kockland the utmost in- 
terest was felt, and though there, as elsewhere, were 
many -sshose hearts beat as warmly for their Southern 
friends as when the sun shone on a nation at peace, all 
felt the necessity of action, and when at last the even- 
ing came in which the first war meeting of that place 
was to be held, a dense and promiscuous crowd wended 
its way to the old brick church, whose hallowed walls 
echoed to the sound of file and drum, strange music for 
the house of God, but more acceptable, iii that dark 
hour, than songs of praise sung by vain and thoughtless 
lips. In the centre of the church, the men were mostly 
congregated, while the seats nearest the door were oc- 
cupied by the women, — the wives and mothers and sisters 
who had come with aching hearts to see their brothers, 
sons and husbands give their signatures to what seemed 
their sure death warrant. Conspicuous among these was 
Widow Simms, whose old-fashioned leghorn, with its 
faded green veil, was visible at aU public gatherings, 
its broad frill of lace shading a pair of sharp grey eyes, 
and a rather pecuhar face. It was very white now, and 
the thin Ups were firmly compressed as the widow tried 
to look resolute and unconcerned when two of her sons 


THE WAR MEETTNO. 


11 


went forward, thoir faces glowing with youthful enthu- 
siasm, as they heard the President repeat their names, 

“ John Simms, — EH Simms.” The widow involuntarily 
said it after him, her mother’s heart whispering within 
her, “Isaac won’t go. He’s too young. I can’t give 
Isaac up,” and her eye wandered to where her youngest 
boy was sitting, twirling his old cloth cap, and occa- 
sionally exchanging a word with the young man next to 
him, WnHam Baker, who, together with his brother, 
arose, to follow John and EH Simms. 

Scarcely, however, had they risen to their feet, when 
a woman occupying the same seat with Widow Simms, 
uttered a cry more Hke the moaning howl of some wild 
beast, than Hke a human sound. 

“No, Harry, no, BiU — no, no,” and the bony arms 
were flung wildly toward the two young men, who, with 
a dogged, indignant glance at her, fell back among the 
crowed where they could not be seen, muttering some- 
thing not very ccmpHmentary to “ the old woman,** as 
they called her. 

But the old woman did not hear it, and if she had, it 
would have made no difference. It mattered not to her 
that they had ever been the veriest pests in the whole 
village, the planners of every grade of mischief, the rob- 
bers of bams and plunderers of orchards, — they were her 
boys, and she didn’t want them shot, so she continued 
to moan and cry, muttering incoherently about the rich 
treading down the poor, and wondering why Judge War- 
ner didn’t send his own white fingered sons, if he thought 
going to war was so nice. 

“ I wouldn’t make such a fuss, let what would happen 
to me,” said the Widow Simms, casting a half contemp- 
tuous glance upon the weeping woman, whom she evi- 
dently considered far beneath her, and adding, “ They hai 


12 


ROSE KATHER. 


'nough-sight oetter be shot than hung, as an aside to thi 
young woman just behind her, — sweet Annie Graham, 
who was holding fast to her husband’s hand, as if she 
would thus keep him in spite of the speaker’s eloquent 
tppeals, and the whispers of his companions, who wert 
urging him to join the company forming so rapidly be- 
fore the altar. 

There was a terrible struggle going on in Annie Gra- | 
ham’s breast, — duty to her country and love for her hus- 
band waging a mighty conflict, the former telling her ^ 
that if the right would triumph, somebody’s husband 
must go, and the wife-heart crying out, “Yes, somebody’s 
husband must go, I know, but not mine, not George.” 

Very tenderly George Graham’s strong arm encircled 
the girlish form, and when he saw how fast the tears 
came to the great dreamy eyes of blue, and thought how 
frail was the wife of little more than a year, he bent 
down until his chin rested on her pale brown hair, and 
whispered softly to her, 

“ Don’t, Annie, darling, you know I will never go un- 
less you think I ought, and give your free consent.” 

Had George Graham wished, he could not have chosen 
a more powerful argument than the words, “ Unless you 
think I ought.” 

Annie repeated them to herself again and again, until 
consciousness of aU else around her was forgotten in that 
one question of duty. She heard no longer the second 
speaker, whose burning eloquence was stirring up hitherto 
reluctant young men to place their names beside others 
already pledged to their country’s cause. Leaning for- 
ward so that her forehead rested on the railing in front, 
slie tried to pray, but flesh and strength were weak, and 
the prayer ended always with the unuttered cry, “ I can- 
not let George go,” while the fingers twined more and 


THE WAR MEETINQ. 


n 

more cioeely around the broad, warm band, which sought 
awhile to reassure her, and then was withdrawn from her 
grasp as George arose and politely offered his seat to a 
lady who had just arrived, and who, after glancing as 
instant at his coatf accepted his civihty as a matter oi 
course, but withheld the thanks she would have accorded 
to one whom she considered her equal. 

Spreading out her wide skirt of rich blue silk so that 
it nearly covered poor Annie, she threw her crimson 
scarf across the railing in front, hitting Widow Simms, 
and so diverting the attention of Ulrs. Baker, that the 
latter ceased her crying, while the widow turned with an 
expression half curious, half . indignant. Annie, too, 
attracted by the heavy fringe and softly-blended colors 
of the scarf, a part of which had fallen upon her lap, as 
the widow shook It fi’om her shoulder with a jerk, stole a 
glance at the new comer, in whom she recognized the 
bride, the beauty^ the envied belle of Kockland, Bose 
Mather, from Boston, — and wife of the wealthy and aris- 
tocratic WiUiam Mather, who three months before had 
ended the strife between the Rockland ladies as to what 
fair hand should spend his gold, and drive his iron greys, 
by bringing to his elegant mansion a fairy little creature 
with whose exquisite beauty even the most fastidious 
could not find fault. Childish in proportions, and per - 
fect in form and feature, she would have been handsome 
without the aid of the dancing brown eyes, and chestnut 
curls which shaded her girhsh brow. Rose knew sue 
was pretty, — knew she was stylish, — knew she was fascin- 
ating, — ^knew she was just then the rage, and as such 
could do and say what she pleased. Sweeping back 
her chestnut hair with her snowy hand, she gave one 
rapid glance at the sea of heads around her, and then, is 
a half petulant tone, exclaimed to her companion 1 


14 


ROSE MATHER. 


** I don’t believe Will is here. I can’t see Rim an^ 
where.” 

** Didn’t you know he had enlisted ?” asked a young 
man, who had made his way through the crowd, and 
joined her. 

For an instant the bright color faded from Ross 
Mather’s cheek, but it quickly returned as she read in 
Mr. Wentworth’s eye, a contradiction of his words. 

“Will enlisted!” she repeated. “Such people as WiJU 
don’t go to the war. It’s a very different class, such, for 
instance, as that one going up to sign. Upon my word, 
it’s the boy who saws our wood I” and she pointed at 
the youth, offering himself up that just such people as 
Rose Mather, radiant in silks and diamonds, and lace 
might rest in peace at home, knowing nothing of war. 
and its attendant horrors, save what came to her through 
the daily prints. 

Widow Simms heard the remark, and with a ^welling 
heart turned toward the boy who sawed Rose Mather’s 
wood, for she knew who it was, and it did not need the 
loud whisper of Mrs. Baker to tell her that it was her boy, 
the yoimgest of the three, the one she loved the best, the 
baby, who kept the milk of human kindness from turning 
quite sour within her breast by his many acts of filial love, 
and his gentle, caressing ways. How could she give him 
up, her darling, her idol, the one so like his father, dead 
ere he was bom ? Who would comfort her as he had 
done ? Who would give her the good-night kiss, timidly, 
BtealthUy, lest the older ones should see and laugh at his 
girlish weakness ? Who would bring his weekly earnings, 
and empty them shiy into her lap? Who would find hex 
place in the prayer-book on Sunday, and pound hex 
clothes on Monday, long before it was light ? Whc 
would spht the nice fine kindlings for the morning fire 


THE iVAR MEETING. 


u 


or bring the cool fresh water in the kun.mer from the 
farther well, and who, when her head was aching si.dljr 
would make the cup of tea she liked so much ? Homelj 
offices, many of them, it is true, but they made up the 
ium of that mother’s happinesS; and it is not strange 
that, for a moment, the iron will gave way, and the pool 
widow wept over her cruel bereavement, not noisily, as 
Ill’s. Baker had done, but silently, bitterly, her body 
trembling nervously, and her whole attitude indicative of 
keen, unaffected anguish. 

Bose did not know the relationship existing between 
the widow and the boy who sawed her wood, but her 
better nature was touched always at the sight of distress, 
and for several minutes, she did not speak except to tell 
Mr. Wentworth how much Brother Tom had paid for the 
crimson scarf, one end of which he was twirling around 
his wrist To Annie it seemed an enormous sum, and a 
little over-awed with her close proximity to one who 
could sport so expensive an article of dress, she involun- 
tarily tried to move away, and avoid, if possible, being 
noticed by the brilliant belle. She might have spared 
herself the trouble, for Bose was too much absorbed with 
the group of admii’ers gathering around her to heed 
the shrinking figui’e at her side, and, after a time, as 
Widow Simms recovered her composure, she resumed 
her gay badinage, bringing in Will with every other 
breath, and showing how completely her heart was bound 
up in her husband, notwithstanding the evident satisfac- 
tion with which she received the flattering comphmenta 
of the gentlemen who, since her arrival at Bockland, had 
made it a point to admire and flirt with the little B istou 
belle, laughing loudly at speeches which, from one les« 
piquant and attractive, would have been nronounce^ 
decidedly silly and meaningless. 


16 


ROSE MATHER. 


Rose was not well posted with regard to the object ol 
that meeting. She knew that Sumter or Charleston had 
been fired upon, she hardly could tell which, for she wa« 
far too sleepy when Will read the news to comprehend 
clearly what it was aU about, and she had skipped eveiy 
word which Brother Tom had written about it in his last 
letter, the one in which he enclosed five hundred dollar* 
for the silver tea-set she saw in Rochester, and wanted 
BO badly. Rose was an accomplished musician, a tolera- 
ble proficient in both French and German, and had 
skimmed nearly aU the higher branches, but hke many 
fashionably educated young ladies, her knowledge ol 
geography comprised a confused medley of cities, towns 
and villages, scattered promiscuously over the face of the 
earth, but which was where she could not pretend to tell ; 
and were it not that Brother Tom had spent three win- 
ters in Charleston, leaving at last his fair-haired wife 
sleeping there beneath the Southern sky, she would 
scarcely have known whether the waters of the Atlantic 
or of Baffin’s Bay, washed the shore of the Palmetto 
State. And still Rose was not a fool in the ordinary ac- 
ceptation of the term. She knew as much or more than 
half the petted belles of modern society, and could say 
smart foolish things with so pretty an air of childish- 
ness, that even those of her own sex who weie at first 
most prejudiced against her, confessed that she was cer- 
tainly very captivating, and possessed the art of making 
everybody like her, even if she hadn’t common sense 1 

On this occasion she chatted on in her usual style, 
provoking from George Graham more than one good- 
aumored smile at remarks which evinced so much igno- 
rance of the matter then agitating the entii’e community. 

“Will wouldn’t go to the war, of course,” she said; 

’ supposing there were one, which she greatly doubted 


THE WAll MEEtlNO. 


11 


Northern men, particularly those of Rockland, were m 
hateful toward the South. She didn’t beheve Bostou 
people were that way at all. At least, Brother Tom 
was not, and he knew ; he had lived in Charleston^ 
and described them as very nice folks. Indeed, she 
knew they were, herself, for she always met them at 
Newport, and liked them so much. She didn’t credit one 
word of what the papers said. She presumed Mr. An- 
derson provoked them. Tom knew him personally.” 

“ You have another brother besides Tom — won't ht 
join the army ?” asked Mr. Wentworth, a smile curling 
the corners of his mouth. 

Rose sighed involuntarily, for on the subject of that 
other brother she was a httle sore, and the mention of him 
always gave her pain. He was not like Brother Tom, the 
eldest, the pride of the Carleton family. He was Jimmie, 
handsome, rolhcking, mischievous Jimmie, to those who 
loved him best, while to the Boston people, who knew 
him best, he was “ that young scapegrace, Jim Carleton, 
destined for the gallows, or some other ignominious 
end,” a prediction which seemed likely ^o be verified at 
the time when he nearly broke a comrade’s head for call- 
ing him a liar, and so w'as eipeUed from college, covered 
with disgrace. Something of this was known to ^Ir. 
Wentworth, and he asked the question he did, just to see 
what Rose would say. But if he thought she would at- 
tempt to conceal anything pertaining to herself, or any 
one else, for that matter, he was mistaken. Rose was 
too truthful for anything like duplicity, and she franklj 
answered: 

We don’t know where Jimmie is. They turned him 
out of college, and then he ran away. It’s more than a 
year since we heard from him. He was in Scuthem 
Virginia, then. Mother thinks he’s dead, ir he would 


18 


ROSE MATHER. 


sure y write to some of us/’ and a tear glittered in Bose’i 
eyes, as she thought of recreant Jimmie, sleeping else- 
where than in the family vault at beautiful Mt. Auburn. 

Rose could not, however, be imhappy long over what was 
% mere speculation, and after a few moments she resumed 
,he subject of her husband’s volunteering. 

' She knew he wouldn’t, even if he did vote for Lin- 
coin. She was not one bit concerned, fomno man who 
ioved his wife as he ought, would want to go and leave 
her,” and the httle lady stroked her luxuriant curls 
coquettishly, spreading out still wider her silken robe, ^ 

which now completely covered the plain shilhng calico oi J 

poor Annie, whose heart for a moment beat almost to ^ 

bursting as she asked herself if it were true, that no man j 

who loved his wife as he ought, would want to go and J 

leave her. In a moment, however, she repelled the as- I 

sertion as false, for George had given too many proofs ^ 

of his devotion for her to doubt him now, even though ' 

he had expressed a desii’e to join the army. Then she 
wished she was at home, where she could not hear what 
Rose Mather said, and she was about proposing to 
George that they should leave, when Mr. Mather himself 
appeared, and she concluded to remain. He was a j 
haughty-looking man, very fond of his little wife, on | 

whose shoulder he laid his hand caressingly, as he \ 

asked “what she thought of war now?” * ! 

“ I just think it is horrid 1” and Rose’s fat hand stole ■ 

up to meet her husband’s; “Mr. Wentworth tried to * 

make me think you had volunteered, but I knew better, j 
The idea of your going off with such frights 1 Why, Will, | 

you can’t begin to guess what a queer-looking set they ‘ * 

dtfe. There was our milkman, and the boy who saw« 
our wood, and canal-drivers, and peddlers, and me- 
chanics, and ” 


THE WAR MEETING. 


Bose did not finish the sentence, for son^ething in net 
husband’s expression stopped her. He liad caught the 
quick uplifting of Annie Graham’s head, — had noted the 
indignant dashing of her blue eye, the kindhng spot on 
her cheek, and glancing at George, he saw at once how 
Bose’s thoughtless words must have wounded her. lit 
had seen the disgusted expression of Widow Simms, as 
she flounced out into the aisle, and knowing that the 
” boy who sawed his wood,” was her son, he felt sorry 
that his wife should have been so indiscreet. Still, he 
could not be angry at the sparkling httle creature chat 
ting so like a parrot, but he felt impelled to say : 

“ You should not judge people by their dress or occu- 
pation. The boy who saws our wood has a heart larger 
than many who make far more pretensions.” 

.• Rose tried to pout at what she knew to have been in 
- tended as a reprimand, but in the excitement of the jam 
as they passed out of the church, she forgot it entirely, 
only once uttering an impatient ejaculation as some one 
.inadvertently stepped upon her sweeping skirt, and so 
held her for a moment, producing the sensation which 
nearly every woman experiences when she feels a sudden 
backward pull, as if skirt and waist were parting company. 

With the hasty exclamation, “Who is stepping on me, 
I’d Uke to know ?” she turned just in time to hear Annk 
Graham’s politely-spoken words of apology: 

“ I beg your pardon, madam ; they push me so behind 
Uiat I could not help it.” 

“ It isn’t the least bit of matter,” returned Rose, dis- 
anned at once of aD resentment, by Annie’s lady-like 
manner, and the expression of the face, on which traces 
of tears were still lingering. 

“ Who is that. Will ?” she whispered, as they emerged 
into the moonlight, and George Graham’s tail form va# 
plainly discernible, together with that of his wife. 


90 


BOSE MATHER. 


Will told her r^ho it was, and Hose rejoined : 

“ He has volunteered, i 'most know. Poor, isn’t he?" 

“Not very rich, most certainly,” was Mr. MathePt 
reply. 

“Then I guess he’s going to the war,” was Rose* 
nental comment, as if poverty were the sole accomplish- 
ment necessai-y for a soldier to possess, a conclusion to 
which older and wiser heads than hers seemed at one 
time to have arrived. 

Annie Graham heard both question and answer, and 
Mrith emotions not particularly pleasant she whispered 
to herself : 

“ Rose Mather shall see that one man at least will not 
go, even if he is a mechanic and poor I” and clinging 
closer to George’s arm, she walked on in silence, think- 
ing bitter thoughts of the little lady, who, delighted with 
having WHl on one side of her, and Mr. Wentworth, his 
partner, on the other, tripped gaily on, laughing as 
lightly as if on the country’s horizon there were no dark, 
thi-eatening cloud, which might yet overshadow her in 
its gloomy folds, and leave her heart as desolate as that 
of the Widow Simms, or the wailing mother of Harry 
and Bill 


CHAPTER n. 

&08B AND ANNIB. 

MATHER’S home was a beautiful place, 
containing everything which love could devise, 
or money purchase, and Rose was very happy 
there, dancing like a sunbeam through the handsoms 


/ 


BOSE AND ANNIE. 21 

rooms of which she was the mistress, and singing ai 
gaily as her pet canary in its gilded cage by the door 
No shadow of sorrow or care had ever crossed her path* 
way, and the eighteen summers of her short life had 
come and gone like so many pleasant memories Dringing 
with them one successive round of joys, leaving no bhght 
behind, and bearing with them, alas, no thanks for the 
good bestowed, for Eose was far too thoughtless to think 
that the Providence which shielded her so tenderly, 
might have dealt more harshly with her. But the shadow 
was creeping on apace, and Rose was conscious that the 
war-meeting had awakened within her a new and uncom- 
fortable train of thought. Like many others, she had a 
habit of believing that nothing very bad could happen to 
her, and so, let what might occur, she was sure her hus- 
band would be spared. Still, in spite of her gaiety, an 
undefined something haunted her all the way from the 
church, and even when alone with her husband in her 
tasteful sitting-room, with the bright gas-light falling 
cheerily around her, and adding a fresh lustre to the 
elegant furniture, she could not shake it off, nor guess 
what it was that ailed her. At last, however, it came to 
her, suggested by the sight of her husband’s evening 
paper, and laying her curly head upon his knee, she gave 
vent to her restlessness in the expression: 

“I wish there wouldn’t be any war. What is it all 
for ? Tell me, please.” 

It was the first interest she had evinced in the matter, 
md glad to talk with any one upon the subject which 
was beginning to occupy so much of his own thoughts 
Mr. Mather drew her into his lap, and endeavored, as fai 
as possible, to explain to her what it all was for. Much ol 
what he said, however, was Greek to Eose, who only 
gained a vague idea that the North was contending for a 


22 


SOSE K. 


bit of cloth, ffiich as she had often seen floating OTer tht 
dome of the old State House in Boston, and with the re- 
maik, that men’s lives were far more valuable than all 
the Stars and Stripes in the world, she fell away to sleef 
caving her husband in the midst of an argument noi 
quite clear to himself, for, like his wife, he could not then 
see exactly what the war was for. Still, inasmuch as there 
was war, he would not play the coward’s part, nor shrink 
from the post of duty if his countiy should need his ser- 
vices. But this Rose did not know, and secure in the 
belief ^hat whatever might happen. Will would never go, 
she soon resumed her wonted cheerfulness, and if she 
said anything of the war, was sure to startle her hearers 
with some remark quite unworthy of a New England 
daughter. She did wish they would stop having so 
many meetings, she said, or if they must have them, she 
wished they’d get Brother Tom to come and set them 
right. He had lived in Charleston. He could tell them 
how kind the people were to Mary, his sick wife, and 
were it not that ’twas beneath him to lecture, she’d sure- 
ly write for him to come. Rose Mather was growing 
unpopular by her foohsh speeches, and when at last she 
was asked to join with other ladies of the town in mak- 
ing articles of clothing for the volunteers, she added the 
last drop to ti^e brimming bucket, by tossing back her 
chestnut tresses, and “ guessing she shouldn’t bhster her 
bands over that coarse stuff. She couldn’t sew much 
any way, and as for making bandages and lint, the very 
Idea was sickening. She’d give them fifty cents if the^ 
wanted, but she positively couldn’t do more than that, 
for she must have a new pair of lavender kids. She had 
worn the old ones three or four times, and Will preached 
economy every day.” 

With a frown of impatience, the matron who had beep 


BOSE AND ANNm 


28 


deputed to ask help from Kose, took the fifty cents, and 
with feelings anything but complimentary to the silly 
little lady, went back to the hall where scores of women 
were busily employed in behalf of the company, some of 
whom would never return to tell how much good ever 
ihe homely housewife, with its pins and needles, and 
thread, had done them when far away where no mother 
or sister hand could reach them, nor yet how the thought 
that perhaps a dear one’s fingers had tom the soft linen 
band, or scraped the tender lint applied to some gaping 
woau, had helped to ease the pain, and cheer the home- 
sick heart. It was surely a work of mercy in which our 
noble women were then engaged, and if from the group 
collected in Bockland Hall, there was much loud mur- 
muring at Rose Mather’s want of sense or heart, it arose 
not so much from iU-nature, as from astonishment that 
she could be so callous and indifferent to an object of so 
much importance. 

“Wait till her husband goes, and she won’t minct 
along so daintily, taking ah that pains to show her Bal- 
moral, when it isn’t one bit muddy,” muttered the Widow 
Simms, pointing out, to those near the window, the lady 
in question, tripping down the street in quest of lavender 
kids, perhaps, or more Hkely, bound for her husband’s 
oflice, where, now that everybody worked all day long at 
the HaU, she spent much of her time, it was so lonely at 
home, with nobody to call. “ I hope he’ll be drafted and 
have to go, upon my word I” continued the widow, whose 
heart was very sore with thinking of the three seats at 
her fireside, so soon to be vacated by her darling boys, Eli, 
]olm, and Isaac. “Yes, I do hope he’ll be drafted, don’* 
vou, Mrs. Graham ?” and she turned toward Annie, who 
was rolling up bandages of linen, and weaving in with ev- 
ery coil a prayer that the poor soldier, whose lot it should 


24 


BOSE MATHEJt 


be to need that band, might return again to the lored 
ones at home, or else be fitted for that better home, 
where war is unknown. 

Annie shook her head, but made no answer. Ther* 
was no bitterness now in her heart against Rose Mather 
She had prayed that all away, and only hoped the an 
guish which had come to her, making her brain giddy, 
and her heart faint, might never be borne by another, il 
tliat could be. George had volunteered, — was to be seo- 
end lieutenant, and Annie, oh, who shall tell of the 
gloom which had fallen so darkly around the cottage she 
had called hers for one brief year. It was a neat, cozy 
dwelling, and to Annie it never seemed so cheerful as on 
that memorable night of the war-meeting, when she had 
lighted the lamp, and sat down with George upon the 
chintz-covered lounge he had helped her make when first 
she was a bride. It is true the carpet was not of velvet, 
like that Rose Mather trod upon; neither was there in 
all the house one inch of rosewood or of marble, but 
there was domestic love, pure and deep as any Rose ever 
experienced, and there was something better far than 
that, a patient, trusting faith in One who can shed light 
upon the dreariest home, and make the heaviest trial 
seem like nought. It was this trusting faith which made 
Annie Graham the sweet, gentle being she was, shedding 
iis influence over her whole life, and softening down a 
lisix>sition which otherwifcre might have been haughty 
wid resentful. Annie was naturally high-spirited and 
[ roud, and Rose’s remarks concerning volunteers in gem 
erol, and George in particular, had stung her to the 
quick, but with the indignant mood there came another 
impulse, and ere the cottage had been reached, the bitter 
feeling had gone, leaving nothing but sorrow that it had 
ever been there. Like Rose, she wished there would bv 


BOSE Am) ANNIE. 


26 


no war, but wishing was of no avail, and long after 
George Graham waa asleep and dreaming, it may be, of 
glories won on battle-fields, Annie lay awake, questioning 
within herself, whether she ought, by word or deed, to 
prevent her husband’s going, if he felt as he seemed to 
feel, that it was as much his duty as that of others t 
join in his country’s defence. Annie was no great rea- 
soner, logically; all her decisions were made to turn upon 
the simple question of right and wrong, and on this oc- 
casion she found it hard to teU, so evenly the balance 
seemed adjusted- More than once she stole from her 
pillow, and going out into the fresh night air, knelt in the 
moonlight, and asked for guidance to choose the right, 
even though that right should take her husband from 
her. 

** If I knew he would not die, it would not be so hard 
to give him up,” she murmured, as sickening visions of 
fields strewni with the dead, and hosjutals fiUed wdth the 
dying, came over her, and for an instant her brain reeled 
with the thought of George dying thus, and leaving her 
no hope of meeting him again, for George’s faith was 
not like hers. 

Anon, however, something whispered to her that the God 
she loved was on the field of carnage, and in the camp and in 
the hospital, and everywhere as much as there in Rockland, 
that prayers innumerable would follow the brave volun- 
teers, and that the evil she so much feared might be the 
means of working the great good she so desired. And thus 
it was that Aiinie came to a decision. Stealing back to her 
busband’s side, she bent above him as he lay sleeping, 
aud with a heart which throbbed to its very core, though 
the lip uttered no sound, she gave him to his country 
asking, if it could be, that he might come back again, but 
if it were ordered otherwise — “ God’s will be done ** 

2 


26 


ROSE MATHER. 


There was no shrinking after that sacrifice was made 
though when the morning came, the death-white face 
and the dark circle beneath the eyes, told of a weary 
vigU, such as many and many a woman kept both Nortl; 
and South, during the dark hours of the Kebellion. Bui 
save the death-white face, and heavy eyes, there was no 
token of the inner struggle, as with a desperate efibrt at 
Self-command, Annie wound her arms around her hus- 
band’s neck, and whispered to him, '‘You may go, — I 
give my free consent,” and George, who cared far more 
to go than he had dared express, kissed the lips which 
tried so hard to smile, little di’eaming what it cost his 
brave young wife to tell him what she had. To one of 
his temperament, there was no danger to be feared 
for himself. The bullet which might strike down a 
brother at his side would be turned away from him 
Others would, of course, be killed, but he should escape 
unharmed. In the language of one speaker, whose elo- 
quent appeal had done much to fire his youthful enthu- 
siasm, “ He was not going to be shoty but to shoot some- 
body I” 

This was his idea, and ere the clingng arms had un- 
clasped themselves from his neck, his imagination had 
leaped forward to the future, and in fancy George 
Graham wore, if not a Colonel’s, at least a Captain’s uni 
form, and the cottage on the hill, which Annie so min^h 
admii'ed, and for the purchase of which a few hundredK-* 
were already saved, was his, — bought with the money ho 
would earn. The deed should be drawn in her name, 
too, he said, and he pictured her to himself coming down 
the walk to meet him, with the rose-blush on her cheek, 
just as she looked the first time he ever saw her. Some- 
thing of this he told her, —and Annie tried to smile, and 
think it aU might be. But her heart that morning wai 


BOSE AND ANNIE. 


27 


^ too heavy to be lightned by a picture ol whai 
seemed so improbable Still, George’s hopeful oonfi 
deuce did much to reassure her, and when, a few daji 
after, she started for the Hall, she purposely took a 
onger walk for the sake of passing the cottage on the 
hill, thinking as she leaned over the low iron fence, how 
ahe would arrange the flower-beds more tastefully than 
they were now arranged, and teach the drooping vines 
to twine more gracefully around the slender columns 
supporting the piazza in front. She would have seats, 
too, — willow-twisted chairs beneath the trees, where she 
and George could sit at twilight, and watch the shadowf 
creeping across the hollow where the old cottage was, 
and up the opposite hiU, where the cupola of Rose 
Mather’s home was plainly visible, blazing in the April 
sunshine. It was a very pleasant castle which Annie 
built, and for a time the load of pain which, since George 
volunteered, had lain so heavy at her heart, was gone ; 
but it returned again when, as she passed a turn in the 
road, her eye wandered down to the hoUow, and that 
other cottage standing there so brown and small, and 
looking already so desolate, because she knew that ere 
many days were over, she should wait in vain for the 
loved footsteps coming down the road, — should miss the 
pleasant, cheery laugh, the teasing joke and words of 
love which made the world all sunshine. The cottage on 
the hill became a worthless thing as poor Annie forced 
back her tears, and with quickened steps hurried on to 
"join the group of ladies busy at the Hall. 

Taking her seat by the window, she commenced the 
light work imposed on her, that of tearing and winding 
bandages for those who might be wounded. 

“ Maybe there’ll never be no fight, but it’s well enough 
to be prepared,” was the soothing ’^emark of the kind 


S8 


BOSE MATHER. 


hearted woman who gave the work to Annie, noting, u 
she did so, how the lip quivered and the cheek paled at 
the very idea. 

“ What if George should need them ?” kept suggesting 
Iteelf to her as she worked industriously on, hoping tha 
•f he did, some one of the rolls she was winding migh 
5ome to him, or better yet, if he could only have the bit 
of soft linen she had brought herself, — a piece of her 
own clothing, and bearing on it her maiden name, Annie 
Howard. He would be sure to know it, she said, it was 
written so plainly with indelible ink, and it would make 
him feel so glad. But there might be other Annie How- 
ards, it was not an uncommon name, was suggested 
next to her, as she tore the linen in strips, and quick as 
thought, her hand sought the pocket of her dress for the 
pencil which she knew was there. Glancing around to 
see that no one observed her, she touched the pencil to 
her lips and vn*ote after the name, “It’s your Annie, 
George. Try to believe I’m there. Rockland, April, 
1861 .” 

There were big tear-drops on that bit of linen, br.t 
Annie brushed them away, and went on with her rolling, 
just as Widow Simms called her attention to Rose 
Mather, as mentioned several pages back. 

Annie could not account for it to herself, but ever 
since Rose’s arrival at Rockland, she had felt a strange 
inexplicable interest in the fashionable belle; an interest 
prompted by something more than mere curiosity, and 
aow that there was an opportunity of seeing her without' 
Seing herself seen, she straightened up and smoothing 
the soft braids of her pale brown hair, waited for the 
antrancn of the little lady, who, \\dth her pink hat set 
jauntily on her chestnut curls, and her rich fur collar 
buttoned gracefully over her handsome cloth cloak, 


BOSE AND ANNIE. 


29 


tripped into the room, doing much by her sunny smiU 
ftnd plesuMut manner to disarm the ladies cf their recent 
prejudice against her. She was nothing but a child, 
they reflected; a spoiled, petted child; she would im 
prove aa she grow older, and came more in contact witl 
the sharp comers of the world, so those who had th« 
honor of her acquaintance, received her with the fami' 
liar deference, if we may be allowed the expression, 
which had always marked their manner toward TVilliam 
Mather’s bride. Rose was too much accustomed to soci- 
ety to be at all disconcerted by the hundred pair ol eyes 
turned scrutinkingly toward her. Indeed, she rather 
enjoyed being looked at, and she tossed the coarse gar 
ments about with a pretty playfulness, saying that 
“ since the ladies had called upon her she had thought 
better of it, and made up her mind to martyr herself 
one afternoon at least, and benefit the soldiers. To be 
sure there wasn’t much she could do. She might hold 
yam for somebody to wind, she supposed, but she 
couldn’t knit, and she didn’t want to sew on such ugly, 
scratchy stUBf as those flannel shirts, but if somebody 
would thread her needle, and fix it aU right, she’d try 
what she could do on a pair of drawers.” 

For a time no one seemed inclined to volunteer hei 
services, and Widow Simms’s shears clicked spitefully 
loud as they cut through the cotton flannel At last, 
however, Mrs. Baker, who had more than once officiated 
as washerwoman at the Mather mansion, came forward 
and arranged some work for Rose, who, untying the 
strings of her pink hat, and adjusting her tiny gold thim- 
ble, labored on until she had succeeded in sewing jp 
and joining together a long leg with one some inches 
shorter, which had happened to be lying near. Loud 
was the shout which a discovery of this mistake called 


80 


ROSE MATHEIi. 


forth nor was it at all abated when Rose deiiinrely asked 
if it would not answer for some soldier who should 
chance to have a limb shot off just below the knee. 

The little simpleton I’* muttered the widow, while 
Ills. Bakei pointed out to the discomfited lady that one 
li dsion of the drawers was right side out and the other 
'NTOng I 


There was no alternative save to rip the entire things 
and with glowing cheeks, Rose began the task of undoing 
what she had done, incidentally letting out, as she worked, 
that Wm might have known better than to send her 
there,— she shouldn’t have come at aU if he had not in- 
sisted, telling her people would call her a secessionist un- 
less she did something to benefit the soldiers. She didn’t 
care what they called her; she knew she was a democrat, 
or used to be before she was married; but now that Will 
was a republican, she hardly knew what she was; any 
way, she was not a secessionist, and she wasn’t particularly 
interested in the war either; why should she be?— Will 
was not going, nor Brother Tom, nor any of her friends. 

‘‘But somebody’s friends are going,— somebody’s Will 
somebody’s Tom ; as dear to them as yours are to you,’’ 
came in a rebuking tone from a sfraight-forward, out- 
spoken woman, who knew from sad experience that 
“ somebody’s Tom was going.” 

Xes, 1 know,” said Rose, a shadow for an instant 
crossing her bright face, “ and its dreadfol, too Will 
says everything wiU be so much higher, and it wiU be so 
didJ at Saratoga and Newport next summer, without the 
^uthem people. One might as well stay at home 
rhe war might have been avoided, too, by a little mn'.nal 
forbearance from both parties, unUl matters could be 
amicably adjusted, for Brother Tom said so in his letter 
last night, and a heap more which I can’t remember.” 


BOSE AND ANNIE. 


81 


Here Hose paused quite exhausted, with the effort she 
had made to repeat the opinion of Brother Tom. She 
had read all his last letter, fully indorsing as much of it 
as she understood, and after a little she went on : 

“ Wasn’t it horrid, though, their firing into the Mas 
wchusetts boys ? — and they were from right ’round Bosk 
ton, too Tom saw them when they started. They were 
fine looking men, he says, and Will thinks I ought to be 
proud that I’m a Bay State girl, and so I am, but it isn’t 
as if my friends had gone. Tom is a democrat, I know, 
but it’s quite another kind that join the army.” 

Widow Simms could keep silent no longer, and brand- 
ishing her polished shears by way of adding emphasis to 
what she said, she began: 

“ And s’posin’ ’tis folks as poor as poverty struck, Daint 
they feehn’s. I’d hke to know? Haint they got bodies 
and souls, and mothers, and wives, and sisters? And 
s’posin’ ’tis democralSy — more shame for t’other side that 
helped get up the muss. Where be they now, them 
chaps that wore the big black capes, and did so much to- 
ward puttin’ Lincoln in that chair ? Why don’t they help 
to keep him settin’ there, and not stand back with their 
hands tucked in their trouses’ pockets ? Both my boys, 
Eh and John, voted t’other ticket, and Isaac would, but 
he wasn’t twenty-one. They’ve all jined, and I won’t say 
I’m sorry, for if there’s anything I hate, it’s a sneak! 
It makes me so mad !” and the big shears again clicked 
savagely, as Widow Simms resumed her work, after hav- 
ing thus delivered her opinion of the hlaek npublicanSt 
besides having, in her own words, given “ tha* puckerin 
Miss Mathers a piece of her mind.” 

Obtuse as Hose was on many points, she saw there 
was some homely truth in what the widow had said, but 
this did not impress her so much as the fact that shi 


S2 


ROSE MATFER. 


had eridently given offence, and she was about trying i€ 
extricate herself from the dilemma when George Graham 
appeared, ostensibly to bring some trivial message to 1 hf 
President of the Society, but really to see if his wif» 
were there, and speak to her some kind word of enouu! 
agemeni Rose recognized him as the young man she 
had seen at the war meeting, and the moment he left the 
hall, she broke out impetuously, 

“Isn’t he handsome? — so tall, so broad-shouldered, 
and such a splendid mark for a bullet, — I most know he 
will be shot ?” 

“ Hush-sh I” came wamingly from several individuals, 
but came too late. The mischief was done. Ere Rose 
could collect her thoughts a group of frightened women 
had gathered around poor Annie, who had fainted. 

“ What’s the matter? do tell 1” cried Rose, standing on 
tip-toe and clutching at the dress of Widow Simms, who 
angrily retorted, 

“ I should s’pose you’d ask. It’s enough to make the 
poor critter faint clean away to hear a body talk about 
her husband’s being a fust rate mark for a bullet 1” 

With all her thoughtlessness. Rose had the kindest 
heart in the world; and forcing her way through the 
crowd, she knelt by the white-faoed-Annie, and tak- 
ing the drooping head in her lap, pushed back tl^e 
thick braids of hair, noticing, with her quick eye for th > 
beautiful, how soft and luxuriant they were, how pure 
was the complexion, how perfect were the features, how 
small and delicate the fingers, and how graceful was the 
slender neck. 

“I’m BO sorry 1 I wish I’d staid at home; T am so 
sorry,” she kept repeating; and when at last Annie rev- 
tume tod consciousness. Rose Mather’s wav first 
voice «be heard. Rose's the first face she saw 


ROSE AM) ANNIE. 




With an involuntary shudder she closed her eyes 'weari' 
ly, while Kose anxiously asked of those about her how 
they should get her home. “ Oh, Jake,” she surJaenly ex- 
claimed, as, towering above the female heads, she saw 
her colored coachman looking for her, and remembered 
that her husband was to call and take her out to ride, 
“oh, Jake, hft this lady up, careful as you can, and put 
her in our carriage. Is Will there? Well, no matter, 
he’ll just have to get out. Stand back, won’t you, and 
let Jake come,” she continued, authoritatively to the 
group of ladies who, half-amused and half-surprised at 
this new phase in Kose Mather’s character, made way 
for burly Jake, who lifted Annie’s light form as if it had 
been a feather’s weight, and bore it down the stairs, fol- 
lowed by Rose, who, with one breath, told Annie not to 
be a bit afraid, for Jake certainly would not drop her, 
and with the next asked Jake if he were positive and 
sure he was strong enough not to let her fall. 

Lazily reclining upon the cushions of his carriage, Wil- 
liam Mather was smoking his Havana, and admiring 
the sleek coat of his iron greys, when Rose appeared, 
and seizing him by the arm, peremptorily ordered him 
to alight, and help Jake lift the lady in. 

“ I don’t know who ’tis, but it’s somebody I made fainf 
away with my silly talk,” she replied in answer to Mr 
Mather’s question, “ Who have you there ?” 

“ You made faint away I” he repeated, as he found 
himself rather unceremoniously landed upon the flag- 
ging stones, his Havana rolling at his feet, and his wife 
preparing to follow Annie, whom J ake had placed inside. 

“Yes; I talked about her husband’s being a splendid 
mark for a bullet, and all that, without ever thinking she 
was his ^ife. He looked so tall, and big, and nice, that 
I couldn’t help thinking his head would c< me above wU 


BOSE MATHEB. 


ilie r-est m a fight, but I don’t be'ieve it will There^ 
Jake, we are ready now, drive on,” said Kose, wbile pool 
groaned afresh at this doubtful consolation. 

whar?” asked Jake. “I dun know whar th^/ 

tfes.” 

“To be sure, nor I either,’* returned Kose, turning 
Inquiringly to her husband, who gave the information, 
adding, as he glanced down the street, 

“ Mr. Graham himself is coming, I see. I think, Kose, 
you had best give your place to him.” 

Kose, who was fond of adventures, wanted sadly to go 
with Annie, but George, when he came up, seemed sc 
concerned, and asked so many questions, that she 
deemed it best to leave it for his wife to make the neces- 
sary explanations, merely saying, as she stepped upon 
the walk, 

“I am so sorry, Mr. Graham; I really did not mean 
anything wrong in saying I knew you’d be shot, for you 
are so ” 

“ Kose, your dress is rubbing the wheel,” interrupted 
Mr. Mather, by way of diverting Kose from repeating 
the act for which she was expressing sorrow. 

“ No, it ain’t rubbing the v* heel, either. It isn’t any 
where near it,” said Kose, wondering w^hat Will could 
mean; while George, taking a seat by Annie, smiled at 
what he saw to be a ruse. 

Bent upon reconcihation, Kose pressed up to the car^ 
riage, and said to Annie, “ You won't be angry at me al- 
ways, will you ? I shouldn’t have thought of it, only he 
joes look so ” 

“Go on, Jake,” I^Ir. Mather called out, cutting short 
Hose’s speech, and the next moment Annie was driving 

iwn the street in Kose Mather’s carriage, and behind 


THE DEPAETUBE. 




the iron gi’ejs, an honor she had never dreamed in w/mi 
for her when she saw the stylish turnout pafisinv 
door of her cottage in the Hollow. 


CHAPTER HI. 


THE DEPAETUBE. 



HE 13th Regiment was ordered to Elmira, nxitt 


the day had arrived for the departure of the vol- 


p unteers. Bright was the sun, and cloudless the 
sky which shone on Rockland, that spring day; but cloud- 
less sky nor warm spring sun could comfort the hearts 
about to part with their treasures, some forever, and 
some to meet again, but when, or where, or how, none 
could teU save Him who holds the secrets of the future. 

There were mothers who had never felt a pang so keen 
or a pain so sore, as when with hearts too full of anguish 
for the dry, red eyes to weep, they watched their sons 
pass from the threshold of the door, and knew that 
when the golden sunlight, falling so brightly around 
them, was purple in the west, they would look in vain 
for that returning step, and listen in vain for tones which 
were the first, perhaps, to stir the deep fountains of ma- 
ternal love. Fathers, too, were there, with heads bent 
down to hide the tears they deemed it weak to shed, as 
they gave the farewell blessing to their boy, praying that 
God might be over and around him, both when the deaf- 
ening battle roar was sounding in his ear, and when in 
the stilly night he wrapped his blanket about him, and 
laid liim down to rest, sometimes with the southern stain 
ihining upon him, and sometimes with the southeri 


56 


ROSE MATHER. 


rain falling on his unsheltered head, for all these vicissi* 
tudes must eome to a soldier on the field. Wives and 
sisters, too, there were, who shuddered as they thought 
how the dear ones to whom they said good-bye, would 
miss the comforts they were leaving, miss the downy 
pillow, the soft, warm bed made with loving hands, and 
the luxuries of home never prized one half so much ai 
now, when they were to be exchanged for a life within 
the camp. And there were maidens, from whose cheeks 
the roses faded, as they gave the parting kiss, and prom- 
ised to be faithful, even though the manly form the lover 
bore away should come back to them all maimed and 
crushed and crippled with the toil of war. Far better 
so than not to come at all. At least so Annie Graham 
thought, as, winding her arms around her husband’s 
neck, she whispered to him : 

“If the body you bring back has my George’s heart 
within it, I shall love you just the same as I do now,” 
and with her fair head lying on his bosom, Annie wept 
piteously. 

Not till then had she realized what it was to let him 
go. She had become somewhat accustomed to thinking 
of it, — accustomed to see him pass in ami out, dressed 
in his stylish uniform, which made him look so hand- 
some, and then she had hoped the regiment would not be 
ordered for a long, long time, never perhaps; but now 
that dream was over; the dreaded hour had come, and 
for a moment Annie felt herself too weak to meet it 
Through the livelong night she had prayed, or if per- 
chance sleep for a moment shut the swollen hds, the lips 
had moved in prayer that her husband might come back 
to her again, or failing to do so, that he might grasp, 
even at the eleventh hour, the Christian’s faith, and so 
^;o to the Christian’s home, where they would meet oum 


THE DEPARTURE. 


87 


more. She had given him her httle Bible, all pencil- 
marked and worn with daily usage,— the one she read 
when first the spirit taught her the meaning of its great 
mysteries, — and George had promised he would read it 

very day,— had said that when he went to battle ha 
would place it next his heart, a talisman to shield him 
from the bullets of the foe. And Annie, smiling through 
her tears, pointed him again to the only One who could 
stand between him and death, asking that when he was 
far away, he would remember what she said, ard pray to 
the God she honored. 

‘‘It’s time, now, darling,” he said, at last, as he heard 
in the distance the beat of the drum. 

But the clinging arms refused to leave his neck, and 
the quivering lips pressed so constantly to his, mur- 
mured: 

“Wait a little minute more. ’Tis the last, you 
know.” 

Again the drum-beat was heard mingled with the shrill 
notes of the fife; the soldiers were marching down the 
street, and he must go, but oh, who can teU of the love, the 
pain, the grief, the tears mingled with that parting, 
—or the agony it cost poor Annie to take her arms 
from off his neck, to feel him putting her away, to 
Lear him going from the room, across the threshold, 
down the walk, through the gate, and know that he was 
gone. 

As a child in peril instinctively turns to the mother 
who it knows has never failed to succor, so Annie turned 
to God, and with a moaning cry for help, sank on her 
knees just where Geoige had left her. Burying her face 
in the lounge she prayed that He who iieareth even the 
raven’s cry, would care for her husband, and bring him 
home again if that could be. So absorbed was she at 


g8 


BOSE MATUER. 


not to he^'T the gate’s sharp click, nor the footstep com 
ing up the Impehed by something he could not 

resist, George had paused just by the garden fence, anJ 
yielding to the impulse which said he must see Amie’ 
fece once more, he stole softly to the open door, an 
itood gazing at her as she knelt, her hands clasped to- 
gether, and her face hidden from his view, as she pi a^ed 
for him. 

^^Will the kind Father keep my George from peril if it 
can be, but if, — oli, God, liow can I say it ? — if he must 
die, teach him the road to Heaven.’’ 

That was what she said, and George, listening to her, 
felt as if it were an angel’s presence in which he stood, 
lie could not disturb her. She was in safer hands than 
his, and he would rather leave her thus, — would rather 
think of her when far away, just as he saw her last, 
kneeling in her desolation and praying for him. 

“It wiU help to make me a better man,” he said, and 
brushing aside the great tears swimming in his eyes, he 
left his angel Annie, and went on his way to battle. 


Just off from Eockland’s main street, and in a cottage 
more humble than that of George Graham, the sun shone 
on another parting, — on Widow Simms giving up her 
boys, and straining every nerve to look composed, and 
keep back the maternal love throbbing so madly at tier 
heart. Rigid as if cut in stone were the lines upon her 
forehead and around her mouth, as she bustled about, 
Joing everything exactly as it should be done, and com- 
uig often to where Isaac sat trying to look unconcerned 
and whistling “ Dixie ” as he pulled on the soft, warn 
pair of socks she had sat up nights to knit him. Eli and 
Ichn had some too, snugly tucked away in their bundle 


J 


THE DEPARTUKE. 


but Isaac’s were different. She had ravelled hei uwe 
lamb's wool stockings for the material composing his, 
for Isaac’s feet were tender; there were marks of chil- 
blains on them; they would become sore and swollen 
from the weary march, and his mother would not be 
there with soothing lint and ointment made from the 
blue poke-berries. Great .pains had the widow taken 
with her breakfast that morning, preparing each son’s 
favorite dish and bringing out the six china cups and 
damask cloth, part of her grandmother’s bridal dower. 
It was a very tempting table, and John and Eli tried to 
eat, exchanging meaning smiles when they saw their 
mother put in Isaac’s cup the biggest lump of sugar, and 
the largest share of cream. They did not care, — for they 
too loved the fair-haired, smooth-faced boy sipping the 
yellow coffee he could not drink for the mysterious 
bunehes rising so fast in his throat. The breakfast was 
over now. Isaac was trying on his socks, while Eli and 
John, knowing their mother would rather be alone when 
she said good-bye to her baby, prepared to start, talking 
ijuite loud, and keeping up stout courage till the last 
moment came, when both the tall, six-foot young men 
put their arms around the widow’s neck, and faltered a 
faint “ Good-bye, mother, good-bye.” 

There were no tears in the mother's eyes, nor in the 
sons’, but in the breast of each there was a whirlpool oi 
raging waters, hurting far more than if they had been 
suffered to overflow in torrents. Eli was the first to go. 
for John lingered a moment. There was something he 
would say, something which made him blush and stam- 
mer. 

“Mother,” he began, “I saw Susan last night. We 
wont to Squire Harding’s together ; and,— and,— well, 
'taint no use opposing it now, — Susan and I are one; anq 


40 


BOSE MATHEB. 


if I shouldn’t come back, be good to her, for my sake 
Susan’s a nice girl, mother,” and on the brown, bearded 
cheek, there was a tear, wi’ung out by thoughts of onlj 
last night’s bride, Susan Ruggles, whose family the widow 
gid not hke, and had set herself against. 

There was no help now, and a sudden start was all the 
widow’s answer. She was not angry, John knew; and 
satisfied with this, he joined his brother in the yard, 
where he was cutting his name upon the beech tree. 
Thrice the widow called them back, failing each time to 
remember what she wanted to say. “It was something 
sure,” and the hard hands worked nervously, twisting uj 
the gingham apron into a roll, smoothing it out again 
and working at the strings, until Eli and John passed 
from the yard, and left her standing there, watching 
them as they walked down the road. They were a 
grand-looking couple, she thought, as she saw how 
well they kept step. They were to march togethei 
to the depot, she knew, and nobody in town could turn 
out a finer span, but who would go wfith Isaac? — 
“ Stub,” his brothers called him. She hoped it might be 
Judge Warner’s son, — it would be such an honor; and 
that brought her back to the fact that Isaac was waiting 
for her inside ; that the hardest part of all was yet to 
come, the bidding him good-bye. He was not in tht 
chair where she had left him sitting, but was standing 
by the window, and raising often to his eyes his cotton 
^landker chief. He heard his mother come in, and turn- 
ing toward her, said, with a sobbing laugh : 

“ I wish the plaguy thing was over.” 

She thought he meant the war, and answered that “it 
would be in a few months, perhaps.” 

“ I don’t mean that, I mean the telling you good-bye. 
Uother, oh, mother I” and the warm-hearted boy clasped 


THE DEPABTUBK 


liis mother to his bosom, crying like a child ; “ if IWe 
ever been mean to you,” he said, his voice choked with toara 
— “ if I’v e ever been mean to you, or done a hateful thing 
you’ll forget it when I’m gone ? I never meant to bo bad 
ind the time I made that face, and called you an old fook 
when I was a little boy, you don’t know how sorry I felt, 
nor how long I cried in the trundle-bed after you were 
asleep. You’U forget it, won’t you, when I am gone, 
never to come back, maybe ? Will you, mother, say ?” 

Would she? Could she remember aught against her 
youngest born, save that he had ever been to her the 
best, the dearest, most obedient child in the world? No, 
she could not, and so she told him, caressing his light 
brown hair and showering upon it the kisses which the 
compressed hps could no longer restrain. The fountain 
of love was broken, and the widow’s tears dropped hke 
rain on the upturned face of her boy. 

Suddenly there came to their ears the same drum-beat 
which had sounded so like a funeral kneU to Annie Gra- 
ham. Isaac must go, but not till one act more was done. 

“ Mother,” he whispered, half hesitatingly, “ it wiUmake 
me a better soldier if you say the Lord’s Prayer with me 
just as you used to do, with your hand upon my head. 
I’ll kneel down, if you like,” and the boy of eighteen, 
wearing a soldier’s dress, did kneel down, nor felt shame 
as the shaky hand rested once more on his bowed head, 
while his mother said with him the prayer learned years 
ago, kneehng as he knelt now. 

Siu’ely to the angels looking on there was charge given 
concerning that young boy, — charge to see that no mur- 
derous bullet came near him, even though they should 
faU round him thick and fast as summer hail. It would 
seem that some such thought as this intruded itsell 
upon the Widow Simms, for where the swelling pain bad 


BOSE MATHER. 


been there came a gentle peace. God wouid care Ibi 
Isaac. He would send him home in safety, and so thi 
bitterness of that parting was more than half tsdcen 
away. 

Again the drum beat just as Annie heard it. Another 
pressuie of the hand, another burning kiss, another 
“good-bye, mother, don’t fret too much about us,” and 
then the last of the widow’s boys was gone. 

Turn we now to the shanty-like building down by the 
mill, where the mother of Harry and Bill rocked to and 
fro upon the unmade bed, and rent the air with her dis- 
mal howls, hoping thus to win at least one tender word 
from the two youths, voraciously devouring the breakfast 
she, like Widow Simms, had been at so much pains to 
prepare, watching even through her tears to see “if 
they wan’t going to leave her one atom of the steak she 
had spent her yesterday’s earnings to buy.” 

No they didn’t. Harry took the last piece, growling 
angrily at Bill, who, kinder hearted than his brother, 
suggested that “ Hal shouldn’t be a pig, but leave some- 
thing for the old woman.” 

“ Leave it yourself,” was Harry’s gruff response, and 
turning to his mother, he told her “ not to make a fool 
of herself, when she knew she was glad to be rid of them. 
At any rate, if she were not, the whole village were;” 
adding, by way of consolation, that “ he should probably 
end his days in State Prison if he staid at home, and he 
had better be shot in a fair fight, as there was some 
eredit in that.” 

Around Harry Baker’s childhood there clustered no 
remembrance of prayers said at the mother’s knee, or of 
Bible stories told in the dusky twilight, and though reared 
in New England, within sight of the church spire, he had 
rarely been inside the house of God, and this it wai 


I 


THE DEPARTURE. 


\ 


4d 


•rhicli made the difference between that scene and th€ 
one transpiring in the house of Widow Simms. All the 
animal passions in Harry Baker’s case were brought to 
full perfection, unsubdued by any softer influence, and 
rising from the table, after having filled his stomach ah 
most to bursting, he swaggered across the room, an» 
opening his bundle began to comment upon the differ 
ent articles, he having been too drunk to notice them 
when given to him on the previous night. 

“ What in thunder is this for ?” he exclaimed, hold- 
ing up the calico housewife, and letting buttons, scis- 
sors and thread drop upon the floor. “Plaguy pretty 
implements of war, these 1” and he began to enumerate 
the articles. “ Fine tooth comb, black as the ace ol 
spades. Good enough idea that; hain’t used one since 
I can remember;*’ and he passed it through his shaggy 
hair, whose aj^pearance fully verified the truth of his 
assertion. “Half a paper of pins. Why didn’t the 
stingy critters give us mpre ? An old brass thimble, 
too. Here, mother, I’ll give you that to remember me 
by,” and he tossed it into her lap. The drawers then 
took his attention; the identical pair Bose Mather made, 
and though they were better than any he had ever worn, 
he laughed at them derisively. Trying them on he suc- 
ceeded in making quite a long rip in one of the seams, 
for Rose’s stitches were none the shortest. Then, with a 
flourish, he kicked them off, uttering an oath as ho felt & 
sharp scratch from the needle wliich Rose had broken, 
and failed to extricate. The woolen shirt came next, but 
any remarks he might have made upon that, were 
prevented by his catching sight of the littls brown book 
which lay at the bottom of the bundle. 

“ Hurrah, BiL, if here ain’t a Testament, with ‘Harrj 
Baker ’ inside. Rich by George I Wonder if they 


BOSS MA.^.L^iJRR» 


i4 

s'poscd I’d read it. Let us see what it says. Com# 
onto me all ye that labor.’ Mother, that means youy scrub- 
bin’ and workin’, you know. Keep the pesky thing. 1 
enlisted to lick the Southerners, not to sing himes and 
psalms I” and he threw the sacred book across the floor, 
just as the first drum-beat sounded. “ That’s the signal,” 
ho exclaimed, and hastily rolling up the shirt and drawers, 
be started for the door, carelessly saying, “ Come Bill 
take your Testament and come along. Good-bye, old lady. 
You needn’t wear black if I’m killed. ’Twon’t pay, J 
guess.” 

“Oh, Harry, Harry, wait. Wait, Billy boy, do wait. 
Give your old marm one kiss,” and the poor woman tot- 
tered toward Harry, who savagely repulsed her, saying 
“he wan’t going to have her slobberin’ over him.” 

“ You, Billy, then, you’U let me kiss you, won’t you ?” 
and she turned toward Bill, who hesitated a moment, 
for Harry was in the way. 

BiU was afi-aid of Harry’s jeers, and so he, too, refused, 
while the wailing cry rose louder. 

“ Oh, Billy, do just once, and I’ve been so good to you ! 
Just once, do, Billy.” 

“ Shan’t do it,” was Bill’s reply, as he followed Harry, 
who, as a farewell parting had hurled a stone at a cow 
across the street, set the dog on his mother’s kitUn, 
stepped on the old cat’s tail, and then left the yard, slam- 
ming after him the rickety gate his mother had tried ii 
vain to have him fix before he went. 

Billy, however, waited. There was something more 
human in his nature than in his brother’s. He had not 
thrown his Testament away, and the sight of it in hU 
bundle had touched a tender chord, making him half 
resolve to read it. Watching his brother till he wai 


\ 




THE DEPAKTIJBE. 48 

ont of fiiglit, he went back to where his mollier sat, moan* 
ing dolefully, 

“ Oh that I should raise sick boys 1 — that I should 
raise sich boys I” 

Mother,” he said, and Mrs. Baker’s heart fairly leapcid 
if the sound, for there was genuine sympathy in the tone. 
* Mother, now that Hal has gone, I don’t mind kissin* 
fou, or lettin’ you kiss me, if you want to.” 

The doleful moan was a perfect scream as the 
shriv^elled arms clasped Bill, while the joyful mother 
kissed the rough but not ill-humored face. ^ 

“ There, now, don’t screech so like an owl,” he said, 
releasing himself from her, and adding, as he glanced 
at a huge silver watch, won by gambling, “ Maybe seein’ 
I’ve a few minutes to spare. I’ll drive a nail or so into 
that confounded gate, and I dun know, but while I’m 
about it. I’ll split you an armful of wood. I had or’to 
have cut up the huU on’t I s’pose, but when Hal is ’round 
I can’t do nothin’.” 

It was strange how many little things BiU did do in 
these few minutes he had to spare — things which added 
greatly to his mother’s comfort, and saved her several 
shillings, beside making a soft warm spot in a heart which 
knew not many such. Glancing at the tall clock brought 
from New England, when Mrs. Baker first moved to Eock- 
land. Bill remarked: 

“The darned thing has stopped agin. I or’to have 
iled it, I s’pose. It would kind of been company for you, 
bearin’ it tick. I vum^ if I hain’t a mind to give you this 
old turnep,” and again he drew out the silver watch. 
•* You’ll lay abed all day without no time. Like enough 
111 nab one from some tamal rebel, — who knows ?” and 
with his favorite expression, “ Nuff said/* Bill laid the 
watch upon the table, his mother moaning all the while, 

“ Billy boy, BiUy boy, I never sot so much store by 


BOSE MATHER. 

jou l^fore. How can I let you go ? Stay, Billy, do, oi 
else run away the first chance you git. Will you* Billj 
boy r 

“Not by a jug fuUl” was the emphatic response. “ I 
ain't none of that kind. I’ll be shot hke a dog bef jrt 
111 run. The Baker name shall never be disgi’aced bj 
my desertin’. It’s more like Hal to do that; but don’t 
howl so. I’m kinder puttin’ on the tender, you know, 
’cause I’m goin’ away. I should be ugly as ever if I’s 
to stay to hum. So stop your snivehn’,” and having 
driven the last nail into a broken chair. Bill gathered up 
his bundle, and with the single remark, “ Nuff said,” 
darted through the open door, and was off ere his mother 
fairly comprehended it. 

There was a great crowd out that momiL|5^ co see the 
company off. Fathers, mothers, wives, sisters, — 

those who had friends in the company and th -)se who had 
none. The Mather carriage was there, anc rom its win- 
dow Rose’s chddish face looked out, now irradiated with 
smiles as its owner bowed to some acquaintance, and 
again shadowed with sympathy as the cries of some be- 
reaved one were heard amid the throng. 

Widow Simms, too, was there, drawn thither by a de 
sire to see if Isaac did march with Charhe Warner, as 
she hoped he would, notwithstanding that he had told 
her he was probably too short. She didn’t beheve 
that, — he was taller than he looked, and inasmuch as 
Charlie was the most aristocratic of the company, she 
did hope Isaac would go with him. So there she stood 
waiting, not far from Ikirs. Baker, who had dried her 
eyes, and come for a last look at her boys. 

Onward the soldiers came, slowly, steadily onward, the 
regular tread of their feet and the measured bent of the 
drum making solemn music as they came, and sending 
a chill to many a heart; for ’twas no gala dt>y, no Fourth 


THE DEPAKTUKK 


47 


01 July, no old fashioned general training, they wep€ 
there to celebrate. Every drum-beat was a note of war, 
and they who kept time to it were going forth to battle. 
Onward, onward still they came, George Graham’s splen» 
-Jid figure towering above the rest, and ehciting more 
than one flattering compliment from the lookers on. 

There were John and Eli, side by side, — John eagerly 
scanning the female forms which lined the walk for a 
sight of last night’s bride, and Eli looking for his mother, 
if perchance she should be there. She was there, and 
what to John was better yet, she stood with her hand on 
Susan's shoulder, showing that thus early she was trying 
to mother her. 

“ That’s him, — that’s John,” and Susan’s voice faltered 
as she pointed him out to the widow, whose heart gave 
one great spasm of pain as she saw him, and then grew 
suddenly still with wrath and indignation; for alas, her 
Isaac, who was to have gone with Charlie Warner, son 
of Rockland’s Jhdge, was marching with William Baker ^ — 
Bill , — who had been to the workhouse twice, to say noth- 
ing of the times he had stolen her rare-ripes and early 
melons I She had not looked for anything like this, and 
could scarcely beheve her senses. Yet there they were, 
right before her eyes, Isaac and Bill, the former hoping 
his mother would not see him, and the latter trying not 
to see his mother, who was quite as much dehghted to 
see him with Isaac Simms as the widow would have been 
had Isaac been with Charlie Warner, just in front. 

Mrs. Baker had followed her sons to the hall, had 
Ueard the reasons for the captain’s decision, and she 
jailed out in a loud, exultant tone, 

“ Miss Simms I Miss Simms do you see your Ike with 
Billy ? Cap’n Johnson would have put him with Charlie 
Wamar if he hadn’t feU short two inches. Look kinder 


48 


ROSE MATHER 


nice together, don’t they ? only Ike stoops a trifle, ’peaii 
to me.” 

It didn’t “ ’pear ” so to Widow Simms, but then her eyes 
w^ore blurred so that she could not see distinctly, for, 
itrange to say, the sharpest pang of all was the knowing 
hat Isaac, so pure, so gentle, so girl- like, must be a com- 
panion for reckless, swearing, gambling Bill, and for a time 
she could not quite forgive her youngest born that he had 
not been just two inches taller. Blind, ignorant Widow 
Simms, the hour will come when, on her bended knees, 
she’ll thank thfe over-ruling hand which kept her boy 
from growingjusl two inches taller I 

Onward, still onward they moved, until they turned 
the corner and paused before the depot. 

A little apart from the rest George Graham stood, 
wishing that the cars would come, and building airy- 
castles of what would be when he returned, covered with 
laurels, as he was sure to do if only opportunities were 
offered. He would distinguish himself, he thought, with 
many a brave deed, so that the papers would talk of him 
as a gaUant hero, and when he came back to Rockland, 
the people would come out to meet him, a denser crowd 
than was assembled now. Their faces would not then 
be so sad, for they would come to do him honor, and in 
fancy he heard the stirring notes of the martial music, 
and saw the smile of joy steal over the weather-beaten 
features of the leader of the band, the man with the 
Jammed white hat, as he fifed that welcome home. There 
wnuid be carriages there, too, more than now, and maybe 
Ihere would be a carriage expressly for him^ and the 
Ireamer saw the long procession moving down the street, 
—saw the httle boys on the walk, the women at the 
doors, and heard the peal of the village bells. It would 
be grand, he thought, if he could have a crown, just ai 


THE DEPAETURE. 


49 

dio Roman victors used to do, — it would please Annie 
BO much to see him thus triumphant. She would no< 
eoine up to the depot, he knew. She would rather lx 
alone when she met him, while he, too, would prefer tLat 
all those people should not be looking on when he kissed 
his httle wife. Just then the train appeared, and the 
confusion became greater as the crowd drew nearer to- 
gether, and the man with the jammed white hat who was 
to life George’s welcome home, redoubled his exertions, 
and tried his best to di’O'wn his own emotions in the harsh 
sounds he made. But above the fife’s shrill scream, 
above the bass drum’s beat, and above the engine’s hiss, 
was heard the sound of wading, as one by one the Rock- 
land volunteers stepped aboard the train. 

Bill was the last to go, for as a parting act he had fired 
the old cannon, which almost from time immemorial had 
heralded to Rockland’s sleeping citizens that twelve 
o’clock had struck and it was Independence day. Some 
laid it was no good omen that the worn-out gun burst in 
twain from the heavy charge with which Bill had seen 
fit to load it, but Bdl cared not for omens, and with three 
cheers and a tiger for Uncle Sam, he jumped upon the 
platfoi-m just as the final all aboard was shouted 

There was a ringing of the bell, a sudden puffing of the 
engine, a straining of machinery, a sweeping backward 
of the wreaths of smoke, and then, where so lately one 
hundred soldiers had been, there was nothing left save 
an open space of frozen ground and iron rails, as cold 
and as em^^ty as the hearts of those who watched until 
I he last curling ring of vapor died amid the eastern 
woods, and then went sadly back to the homee left sc 
desolate. 


50 


BOSE MATHEB 


CHAPTER lY. 



WILL AKD BROTHER TOM. 

LETTER from brother Tom, — I am so glai 
It’s an age since he wrote, and I’ve been vlyin^ 
to hear fix)m home. Dear old Torn!” and drop* 
iiig parasol in one place, gloves in another, and shawl in 
another. Rose Mather, who had just come in from shop- 
ing, seized the letter her husband handed her, and seating 
herself upon an ottoman near the window, began to read 
without observing that it was dated at Washington instead 
of Boston, as usual. 

Gradually, however, there came a shadow over her 
face, and her husband saw the tears gathering slowly in 
her eyes, and droppyig upon the letter she had been 
“ dying to get.” 

“ What is it. Rose ?” Llr. Mather asked, as a sob met 
his ear. 

“ Oh, AViU,” and Rose cried outright, “I didn’t believe 
Tom would do that ! I thought people hke him never 
went to the war. I ’most know he’ll be killed. Oh, 
dear, dear. What shall I do ?” and Rose hid her face in 
the lap of her husband, who fondly caressed her chest- 
nut hair as he replied, 

“ You’ll bear it like a brave New England woman. We 
need just such men as your brother Tom, and I never re- 
spected him one half so much as now that he has shown 
how truly noble he is. He was greatly opposed to Lin- 
5oln, you know, and worked hard to defeat him; but now 
that our country is in danger, he, hke a true patriot, hag 
thrown aside all poUtical feehng and gone to the rescue 
I honor him for it, and may success attend him.” 


WILL AND BROTHER TOM. 


61 


“Yes,” interrupted Rose, as a new idea struck her 
“but what will his Southern friends think of him? and 
he has got a heap of them. There are the Bimcys and 
Franklins from New Orleans, the Richardsons in Mobile, 
smd those nice people in Charleston, — what will they saj 
rhen they hear he has taken up arms against them ? and 
he al ivayg used to quarrel so with those stiff Abohtionista 
in Boston, when they said the Southerners had no right 
to their slaves. Tom insisted they had, and that the North 
was meddling with what was none of its business, and 
now he’s turned abolitionist, and joined too, — dear, 
dear.” 

]Mr. Mather smiled at Rose’s reasoning, and after a mo- 
ment, replied, “ I have no idea that Tom has changed his 
mind in the least with regard to the negroes, or that he 
loves his Southern friends one whit the less than when 
defending them from abuse. Negroes and Southern pro- 
clivities have nothing to do with it. A blow has been 
struck at the very heart of our Union, and Tom feels it 
his duty to resent it. It’s just like this: suppose you, in 
a pet, were trying to scratch your mother’s eyes out, and 
Tom should try to prevent it. Would you think him 
false to you, because he took the part of his mother? 
Would you not rather respect him far more than if he 
stood quietly by and saw you fight it out ?” 

“ It is not very likely I should try to scratch out moth- 
er’s eyes,” said Rose, half laughing at her husband’s 
odd comparison, and adding, after a moment, “ I don’t 
see how folks can fight and love each other too.” 

Mr. Mather didn’t quite see it either, and without di- 
rectly replying to Rose, he asked, by way of diverting 
her mind from the subject of her brother’s volunteering, 
if she noticed what Tom said about the Rockland Com- 
pany in general, and George Graham and Isaac Simms ii 
particular ? 


52 


ROSE MATHER. 


This reminded Kose of Annie, who had b€«n ill mod 
of the time since her husband’s departure. 

“ I meant to have called on Mrs. Graham right away,* 
ihe said. “ The poor creature has been so sick, they say, 
but would not let them send fdr George, because it was 
liis d ity to stay where he was. I’d like to see duty or 
anything else make me willing to part with you. I don’t 
believe IVIi’s. Graham loves her husband as I do you, or 
she would never consent to be left alone,” and Rose 
nestled closer to her husband, who could not find cour- 
age to teU her what he meant to do when he handed her 
Tom’s letter. It would be too much for her to bear at 
once, he thought, as he saw how greatly she was pained 
because her brother had joined the army, and was even 
then in Washington. 

To Rose it was some consolation that Tom was captain 
of his company, and that his soldiers were taken from 
the finest families in Boston. This was far better than 
if he had gone as a private, which of course he would not 
do. He was too proud for that, and she could never have 
forgiven him the disgi’ace. Still, viewed in any hght, it 
was very sad, for Tom had been to Rose more like a 
father than a brother. He was the pride, the head of 
the Carleton family, upon whom herself and mother had 
leaned, the one since the day of her widowhood, and the 
other since she could remmeber. He it was who had 
petted and caressed, and spoilt her up to the very hour 
when, at the altar, he had given her away to WiU. He 
it was, too, who had been the arbiter of all the childish 
differences which had arisen between herself and Jimmiej 
teasing, naughty Jimmie^ wandering now no one knew 
where, if indeed he were alive. And at the thought of 
Jimmie, with his saucy eyes and handsome face, her tears 
flowed afresh. What if he were living and should join 


WILL AKD BROTHER TOM. 


51 


the army, like Tom? It would be more than she could 
beiir, and for a long time after her husband left her, Rose 
Bat weeping over the picture she drew of both her broth- 
ers slain on some bloody battle-field. The shadow of ww 
was beginning to enfold her, and brought with it a nen 
and strange sympathy for those who, like herself, had 
brothers in the army. 

Again remembering Annie Graham, she sprang up, ex- 
claiming to herself, 

“ I’ll go this very afternoon. She’ll be so glad to know 
what Tom thinks of George I’* and ere long Rose was pick- 
ing her way daintily through the nari’ow street which led 
to the cottage in the Hollow. It was superior to most ol 
the dw^ellings upon that street, and Rose was stnick at 
once with the air of neatness and thrift apparent in every- 
thing around it, from the nicely painted fence to the lit- 
tle garden with its plats of flowers just budding into 
beauty. 

“ They have seen better days, I am sure, or else IVIrs. 
Graham’s social position was above her husband’s,” was 
Rose’s mental comment, as she lifted the gate latch and 
passed up the narrow walk, catching a glimpse, through 
the open window, of a sweet, pale face, and of a thick 
stout figure, flying through the opposite door, as if anx 
ions to avoid being seen. 

Poor Annie had been very sick, and more than onct 
the physician who attended her had suggested sending 
for her husband, but Annie, though missing him sadly, 
and longing for him more than any one could guess, al- 
ways opposed it, begging of Widow Simms, wlio of her 
own accord went to nurse her, not to write anythirg wnicL 
would alarm liim in the least. So George, ever hopeful, 
ever looking on the sunny side, thought of his blue-eyed 
wife as a little bit sick, and nervous it might be, but not 


64 


ROSE MATHER. 



dangerous at all, and wrote to her kind, loving, cheering ‘ | 
letters, which did much to keep her courage from dying | 

within her. Annie was better now, — was just in that j 

state of convalescence when she found it very hard to | 

lie all day long, watching Widow Simms as she bustled ; 

out and in, setting the chairs in a row with their sii 
backs square against the wall, and their six fronts oppo- } 

site the table, stand and bureau, also in a row. She was f 

just wishing some one would come, when the swinging ol 
the gate and the widow’s exclamation, “ Oh, the land, if 
that stuck up thing ain’t cornin’,” announced the approach 
of Rose Mather. 

“I’ll make myself missin’, for mercy knows I don’t ^ 
wan’t to hear none of your secession stuff. It fairly makes 
my blood bile!” was the widow’s next comment; and 
gathering up her knitting she hurried into the kitchen, 
leaving Annie to receive her visitor alone. 

Not waiting for her knock to be answered. Rose en- 
tered at the open door, and advanced at once into the 
room where Annie was, her fair hair pushed back from J 
her forehead, her blue eyes unusually brilliant, and her 
face scarcely less white than the pillow on which it lay. | 

Rose had an eye for the beautiful, and after the first 
words of gi-eeting were over, she broke out in her impul- 
sive way — 

“ Why, Mrs. Graham, how handsome you are looking I 
just like the apple blossoms. I wish your husband could 
see you now. I’m sure he wouldn’t stay there another ^ 

hour, I think it’s cruel in him, don’t you ?” \ 

The tears came at once to Annie’s eyes, and her voice 
iras very low as she replied: | 

“ George does not know how sick I have been, neither | 

do I wish to have him. It would only make his burden ^ 

heavier to bear, and I try to care more for his comfoii 
than my own.” 


WILL ANU BROTHER TOM. 


5i> 


This was a phase of unselfishness wholly new to Rose 
and for an instant she was silent, then remembering 
Tom’s letter, she seated herself upon the foot of the bed, 
and throwing aside her bonnet, took the letter from her 
pocket, telling Annie as she did so that she, too, was now 
interested in the war, and in every one whose friends had 
gene. 

never knew how it felt before,” she said; “and 
Fve made a heap of silly speeches, I know. Don’t you 
remember that time in the Hall, when I talked aboui 
your husband being shot ? I am sorry, but I do thiTiV 
he’s more likely to be picked off than Tom, who is not 
nearly as tall. You are faint, ain’t you ?” she added, as 
she saw how deathly pale Annie grew, while the drops 
of perspiration stood thickly about her lips. 

“Simpleton, simpleton!” muttered Widow Simms, list- 
ening through the keyhole in the kitchen, while Annie 
whispered: 

“Please don’t talk that way, Mrs. Mather. I know 
George is very tall, but unless God wills it otherwise, the 
bullets win pass by him as well as others.” 

Rose saw she had done mischief again, by her thought- 
less way of speaking, and eager to repair the wrong, she 
bent over Annie and said: 

“ I am sorry. I’m always doing something foolish. 
You are faint; shan’t I teU the servant to bring you some 
water ? She’s in the kitchen, I suppose,” and ere Annie 
could explain. Rose had darted into the neat httle kitch- 
en where Widow Simms was stooping over the stove and 
kindling a fire, with which to make the evening tea. 

“Girl, girl, Mrs. Graham wants some water. Huny 
and bring it quick, will you?” 

Rose called out a little peremptorily, for there waif 
iomething rather suggestive of defiance in the square^ 


66 


BOSE MATHER. 


straight back which never moved a particle in answer U 
the command. 

“ Deaf or hateful,” was Rose’s mental comment, and as 
it might possibly be the former, she wished she knew th€ 
^I’s name, as that would be more apt to attract heri 

Most every Irish girl is Bridget,” she thought to her> 
self “ and I guess this one is. Any way she acts like the 
girl that used to order mother out doors, so I’ll venture 
upon that name.” 

“Bridget, Bridget!” and this time the voice was de- 
cidedly authoritative in its tone, but what more Rose 
might have added was cut short by the widow, who 
dropped the griddle with a bang, and turning sharplj 
round, replied: 

“There’s no Bridget here, and if it’s me you mean, 1 
am Mrs. Joseph Simms /” 

Rose had good reason for remembering Mrs. Simms, 
and coloring crimson, she tried to apologize : 

“I beg your pardon; I did not see your face. I sup- 
posed everybody kept a girl; and your back looked 
like ” 

“Don’t make the matter any worse,” interrupted 
the widow, smiling in spite of herself at Rose’s attempt 
to excuse her blunder. “You thought from my dress 
that I was a hired girl, and so I was in my younger days, 
and I don’t feel none the wus for it neither. Miss Gra- 
ham’s faint, is she? She’s had time to get over it, I 
think. Here’s the water,” and filling a gourd shell she 
hsmded it to Rose, who, in her admiration of the (to her) 
novel drinking cup, came near forgetting Annie. 

But Annie did not care, for the rencounter between 
the widow and Rose had done her quite as much good 
as the water could, and Rose found her laughing the first 
really hearty laugh she had enjoyed since George weni 
away. 


WILL AND BROTHER TOM. 


6 ^ 


“ It’t jc»st like me,” Kose said, as she resumed her seat 
by Annie, listening intently while she told how kind th€ 
Widow Simms had been, coming every day to stay with 
her, and only leaving her at night because Annie insisted 
lhat she should. 

‘ = 1 hke Mrs. Simms!” was Rose’s vehement exclama** 
Uon • “ and I am glad Tom said what he did about Isaac, 
who used to saw our wood. I did not tell you, did I ? 
And there’s something real nice about your husband, too. 
I mean to caU her in while I read it,” and Rose ran out 
to the wood-shed, where the widow was now sphtting a 
pine board for kindling, the newspaper she at first had 
used, having burned entirely out. 

Rose’s manner and voice were very conciliatory as she 
said: 

“ Please, IVIrs. Simms, come in and listen while I read 
what brother Tom has written about Mr. Graham and 
your Isaac, — something perfectly splendid. Tom has 
volunteered and gone to Washington, you know.” 

It was strange how those few words changed the 
widow’s opinion of Rose. The fact that Thomas Carle • 
ton, whom the Rockland people fancied was a Secession- 
ist, had joined the Federal army, did much toward ejffect- 
ing this change, but not so much as the fact that he had 
actually noticed her boy, and spoken of him in a letter. 

“ ]\Iiss Mather ain’t so bad after all,” she thought, and 
striking her axe into the log, she followed Rose to the 
sitting-room, listening eagerly while she read the few 
sentences pertaining to George and Isaac. They were 
V follows: 

‘ By the way. Will, I find there’s a company here from 
Rockland. Fine appearing fellows, i^oo, most ol them 
are, and under good discipline. I am especially pleased 
8 * 


68 


ROSE MATHER. 


With the second lieutenant. He’s a magnificent looking 
aaan, and attracts attention wherever he goes. ’ 

“ That’s George, you know,” and Rose, quite as much 
pleased as Annie herself, nodded toward the latter, 
whose pale cheek flushed with pride at hearing her hus- 
band thus spoken of by Rose Mather’s brother. 

‘^Yes, but Isaac,” interrupted the widow. “Where- 
abouts does he come in ?” 

“ Oh, pretty soon I’ll get to him. There’s more about 
Cteorge yet,” answered Rose, as she resumed her read- 
ing. 

“I had the pleasure of talking with him yesterday, 
and found him very intelligent and sensible. If we had 
more men like him, success would be sure and speedy. 
He has about him a great deal of fun and humor, which 
go far toward keeping up the spirits of his company, 
and some of the poor feUows need it sadly. There’s a 
young boy in the ranks, Isaac Simms, who interests me 
greatly.” 

“ Oh-h 1” and the widow drew a long sigh as Rose con- 
tinued: 

“ I wonder he was ever suffered to come, he seems so 
young, so girl-hke and so gentle. Still he does a great 
deal of good, Lieut. Graham tells me, by visiting the 
sick and sharing with them any delicacy he happens to 
have. He’s rather homesick, I imagine, for when I asked 
him if he had a mother, his chin quivered in a moment, 
and I paw the tears standing in his eyes. Poor boy, I 
can’t account for the interest I feel in him. Heaven 
grant that if we come to open fight he may not fall a 
victim.” 

“Yes, yes, my boy, my darling boy,” and burying hei 
face in her hard hands, the widow sobbed aloud. “I 
thank you, Miss Mather, for reading me that,” she said 


WILL AND BROTHER TOM. 


5S 


“ and I thank your brother for wiiting it. Tell tum so 
will you. TeU him I’m nothing but a cross, sour-grained, 
snappish old woman, but I have a mother’s heart, and 1 
bless him for speaking so kindly of my boy.” 

Rose’s tears fell fast as she folded up the letter, and 
Annie’s kept company with them. There was a bond oi 
sympathy now between the three, as they talked together 
of the soldiers, IVIrs. Simms and Annie devising various 
methods by which they might be benefited, and Rose 
wialiing she, too, could do something for them. 

“But I can’t,” she said, despahingly. “I never did 
anybody any real good in all my Ufe, — only bothered 
them,” and Rose sighed as she thought how useless and 
aimless was her present mode of life. 

“ You’U learn by and by,” said the widow, in a tone 
unusually soft for her; then, as if the sock she held in 
her lap had suggested the idea, she continued, “ Can 
you knit ?” 

Rose shook her head. 

“ Nor your mother, neither ?” 

Again Rose shook her head, feeling quite ashamed 
that she should lack this accomplishment. 

“ WeU,” the widow went on, “ ’taint much use to learn 
now. ’Twould take a year to git one stocking done, but 
if when winter comes, that brother of yours wants socks 
and mittens, or the hke of that, tell him I’ll knit ’em for 
him. * 

“Oh, you are so kindl” cried Rose, thinking to her- 
self how she’d send Widow Simms some pineapple pre- 
serves, such as she had with dessei-t that day. 

They grew to liking each other very fast after this, 
and Rose staid until the little round table was arranged 
for tea and rolled to Annie’s bedside. There was no 
plate for Rose, the widow having deemed it preposterooi 


50 


ROSE IIATHER. 


that she should stay, but the table looked so cosy, witi 
its tiny black teapot, and its nicely buttered toast, 
that Rose invited herself, with such a pretty, patronizin| 
way, that the widow failed to see the condescension 
it implied. It did not, however, escape Annie’s cb« 
servation, but she could not feel angry with the lit til 
!ady, touching her bone-handled knife as if she were 
afraid of it, and looking round in quest of the napkin 
she failed to find, for Widow Simms had banished 
napkins from the table as superfluous articles , w Ich 
answered no earthly purpose, save the putting an extra 
four cents into the pocket of the washerwoman, Harry 
Baker’s mother. 

It was growing late, and the sunset shadows were al- 
ready creeping into the Hollow when Rose bade Annie 
good-bye, promising to come again ere long, and won- 
dering, as she took her homeward way, whence came the 
calm, qniet peace which made Annie Graham so happy, 
even though her husband were far away in the midst of 
danger and death. Rose had heard that Annie was a 
Christian, and so were many others whom she knew, but 
they were much like herself,— good, well-meaning people, 
amiable, and submissive when everything went to suit 
them, but let their husbands once join the army and they 
would make quite as much fuss as she, who did not pro- 
fess to be anything. And then, for the first time in her 
life, Rose wished she, too, could learn from Annie’* 
teacher, and so have something to sustain her in case 
her husband should go. But he wouldn’t go, — and if 
he did, all the rehgion in the world could not make her re- 
gigned, — and the tears sprang to Rose’s eyes as she hurried 
up the handsome walk to the piazza, where WHl sat smo- 
king his cigar in the hazy twilight. She told him where 
ihe had been, and then sitting upon his knee told 


WILL AND BROTHER TOM. 61 

him of Annie, wishing she could be like her, and askini 
if he did not wish so too. 

Will made no direct reply. His thoughts were evi 
dently elsewhere, and after a few minutes he said, hesi 
tatingly: 

" Would it break my darling’s heart if I should joii 
Tom at Washington ?” 

There was a cry of horror, and Kose hid her face in 
her husband’s bosom. 

“Oh, Will, AVill, you shan’t, you can’t, you mustn’t 
and won’t 1 I didn’t know you ever thought of such a 
cruel thing. Don’t you love me any more ? I’ll try to 
do better, I certainly wiUl” and Eose nestled closer to 
him, holding his hands just as Annie Graham had once 
held her husband’s. 

“ You could not be much better, neither could I love 
you more than I do now, Eosa, darling,” Mi*. Mather re- 
plied, kissing her childish brow. “ But, Eosa, be sea- 
sonable once, and listen while I tell you how, ever sii'-ca 
the fall of Sumter, I have thought the time would come, 
when I should be needed, resohdng, too, that whe?. ?t 
came, it should not find me a second Sardanapalus /” 

The sudden lifting of Eose’s head, and her look of r^r- 
plexed inquiry, showed that notwithstanding the fanciful 
ornament styled a Diploma lying in her writing-desk, Sar- 
danapalus had not the honor of being numbered among 
her acquaintances. But her heart was too full to ask an 
explanation, and her husband continued: 

“ Besides that, there was a mutual understanding be- 
tween Tom and myself, that if one went the other would, 
and he has gone, — nobly laying aside aU the party pre- 
mdice which for a time influenced his conduct Oui 
country needs more men.” 

“Yes, yes,” gasped Eose: “but more have gone 


62 


ROSE MATHER. 


There’s scarcely a boy left in town, and i^s just bo evren 
where.” 

Mr. Mather smiled as he replied : 

“ I know the boys have gone, — boys whose fair, beard 
less faces should put to shame a strong, full-grown man 
like me. And another class, too, have gone, our laboi^ 
ing young men, leaving behind them poverty and little 
helpless children, whereas I have nothing of that kind 
for an excuse.” 

“ Oh, I wish I had a dozen children, if that would keep 
you I” cried Rose, the insane idea flashing upon her that 
she would at once adopt a score or more of those she 
had seen playing in the muddy Hollow that afternoon. 

Mr. Mather smiled, and continued : 

“ Supjjose you try and accustom yourself to the idea 
of living a while without me. I shall not die until my 
appointed time, and shall undoubtedly come back again. 
Don’t you see ?” 

“No, Rose didn’t. Her heart was too full of pain to 
Bee how going to war was just as sure a method of pro- 
longing one’s hfe as staying at home, and she sobbed 
passionately, one moment accusing her husband of not 
loving her as he used to. and the next begging of him to 
abandon his wild project. 

Mr. Mather was a man of Arm decision, and long be- 
fore he broached the subject to his wife, his mind 
had been made up that his country called for Mm, — not 
for somebody else, — but for him personally; that if the 
rebellion were to be crushed out, men of wealth and in- 
fluence must help to crmsh it, not alone by remaining at 
home and urging others on, though this were an import- 
ant part, but by actually joining in the combat, and by 
their presence cheering and inspiring others. And Mr. 
Mather was going, too, — had, in fact, aheady made ar 


WILL AND BROTHER TOIL 63 

raogemenis to that effect, and neither the tears noi 
entreaties of his young wife could avail to change hi* 
purpose. But he did not tell her so that night ; he 
would rather come to it gradually, taking a different 
course fi’om that which George Graham had pursued, 
for where George had left the decision wholly to hit 
wife, ^Ir. Mather had taken it wholly upon himself ^ mak- 
ing it first and telling Kose afterwards. It was better 
BO, he thought, and having said aU to her that he wished 
to say on that occasion, he tried to divert her mind into 
another channel. But Kose was not to be diverted. It 
had come upon her like a thunderbolt, — the thing she 
so much dreaded, — and she wept bitterly, seeing in the 
future, which only a few hours before looked so bright 
and joyous, nothing but impenetrable gloom, for she could 
read her husband tolerably well, and she intuitively fell 
that she had lost him, — that he was going from her, 
never to come back, she knew. She should be a widow 
before she was nineteen, and the host of summer dresses 
she meant to buy when she went back to Boston, changed 
into a widow’s sombre weeds, as Kose saw herself arrayed 
in the habiliments of mourning. What a fright she 
looked to herself in the widow’s cap, with which her 
'fivid imagination disfigured her chestnut hair, and she 
shuddered afresh as she thought how hideous she was in 
black. 

Poor, simple little Kose I And yet we say again Kose 
was not a fooly nor yet an unnatural character. There 
are many, many hke her, some who will recognize them- 
selves in this story and more who will not. Gay, impul- 
sive, pleasure-seeking creatures, whom fashionable edu- 
cation and too indulgent parents have done tlieir utmost 
to spoil, but who still possess many traits of excellence, 
needing only adverse circumstances to mould and hammei 


64 


BOSE MiTHER. 


them into the genuine coin of true-hearted womanhood 
Such an one was Rose. Reared by a fond mother, petted 
by an older brother, and teased by a younger, flattered 
by friend and foe, and latterly caressed and worshiped 
by a husband. Rose had come to think far too much of 
her own importance as Mrs. Rose Mather, — IVIiss Rose 
Carleton, of Boston, an acknowledged belle, and leader 
of the ton. 

There was a wide difference between Rose and Anme 
Graham, for while the latter, in her sweet unselfishness, 
thought only of her husband’s welfare, both here and 
hereafter, Rose’s first impulse was a dread shrinking 
from being alone, and her second a terror lest the years 
of her youth, now rpread out so invitingly before her, 
should be passed in secluded widowhood, with nothing 
from the gay world without wherewith to feed her vanity 
and love for admiration. StiU, beneath Rose’s light ex- 
terior there was hidden a mine of tenderness and love, a 
heart which, when roused to action, was capable of 
greater, more heroic deeds, than would at first seem pos- 
sible. And that heart was rousing, too, — was gradually 
waking into Hfe; but not aU at once, and the tears which 
Rose shed the whole night through were wrung oul. 
more from selfishness, perhaps, than from any higher 
feeling. It would be so stupid living there alone ii 
Rockland. If she could only go to Washington with 
Will it would not be half so bad, but she could not, for she 
waked Will up from a sound sleep to ask him if she might, 
and he had answered “ Ab,” falling away again to sleep, 
and leaving Rose to wakefulness and tears, unmingled 
with any prayer that the cloud gathering so fast around 
her might sometime break in blessings on her head. 

It was scarcely light next morning when Rose, deter* 
mining to prevail, redoubled her entreaties for her hue 


WILL iLlTD BROTHEB TOM. 


band to abandon the decision he now candidly acknow- 
ledged, but she could not. He was going to the war, 
and going as a private. Rose almost fainted when ho 
told her this, and for a time refused to be comforted 
She might learn to bear it, she said, if he were an officer 
but to go as a common soldier, like those she worked for 
^ the HaU, was more than she could bear. 

It was in vain that Mr. Mather told her how only a few 
(jould be officers, and that he was content to serve his 
country in any capacity, leaving the more lucrative situ- 
ations to those who needed them more. He did not tell 
her he had declined a post of honor, for the sake of one 
who seemed to him more worthy of it. He would rather 
this should reach her from some other source, and ere 
the day was over it did, for in a small town like Rock- 
land it did not take long for every other one to know that 
William Mather had enlisted as a private soldier, when 
he might have been Colonel of a regiment, had he not 
given place to another because that other had depending 
on him a bed-ridden mother, a crazy wife, and six little 
helpless children. 

How fast WiUiam Mather rose in the estimation of 
those who, never having known him intimately, had 
looked upon him as a cold, haughty man, whose loyalty 
was somewhat doubtful, and how proud Rose felt, even 
in the midst of her tears, as she heard on every side her 
husband’s praise. Even the Widow Simms ventured to 
the Mather mansion, telling her how glad she was, and 
offering to do what she could for the volunteer, while 
Annie, unable to do anything for herself, could only pray 
that God would bring Mr. Mather back safely to the child- 
wife, who was so bowed down with grief. How Annie 
longed to see her, — and, if possible, impart to her some 
portion of the hopeful trust which kept her rwv souJ 


66 


BOOT MArHEB. 


from fainting beneath its burden of anxious uncertainty 
But the days passed on, and Kose came no more to thi 
cottage in the Hollow. Love for her husband had tri- 
amphed over every other feeling, and rousing from hef 
ftatt of inertness, she busied herself in doing, or rathel 
trying tc do, a thousand little things which she fancied 
might add to WHlie's comfort. She called him Willie 
now, as if that name were dearer, tenderer than Will^ 
and the strong man, every time he heard it, felt a sore 
pang, — there was something so plaintive in the tone, as 
if she were speaking of the dead. 

It was a most beautiful summer day, when at last he 
left her, and Kose’s heart was well nigh bursting with its 
load of pain. It was all in vain that she said her usua*. 
form of prayer, never more meaningless than now wh^ 
her thoughts were so wLolly absorbed with something 
else. She did not pray in faith, but because it was a 
habit of her childhood, a something she rarely omitted, 
unless in too great a hurry. No wonder then that she 
rose up from her devotion quite as grief-stricken as when 
she first knelt down. God does not often answer what 
is mere lip service, and Eose was yet a stranger to 
the prayer which stirs the heart and carries power with 
it. The parting was terrible, and !Mr. Mather more than 
half repented when he saw how tightly she clung to hia 
neck, begging him to take her with him, or at least to 
•end for her very soon. 

“What shall I do when you are gone? What can 1 
do?” she sobbed, and her husband answered: 

“ You can work for me, darling, — work for all the sol- 
d ers. It will help divert your mind.” 

“ I can’t I can’t,” was Bose’s answer. “ I don’t know 
how to woiL Oh, Willie, Willie! I wish there wasn’t 
any war. 


JDIMIE. 


6 '» 

Willie wished so too, but there was no time now foi 
►•egrets, for a rumbling in the distance and a rising 
wreath of smoke on the western plain warned him not to 
Un-y longer if he would go that day. One more bum* 
ing kiss, — one more fond pressure of the wife he loved 
Ro much, — a few more whispered words of hope, and then 
another Rockland volunteer had gone. Gone without 
during to look backward to the httle form lying just the 
Bkjne as he had put it from him, and yet not just the 
Bit me. He had felt it quivering with anguish when he 
to*)k his arms away, but the trembling, quivering motion 
w^ over now, and the form he had caressed lay motion- 
less and still, all unconscious of the dreary pain throb- 
bing in the heart, and all unmindful of the loud hurrah 
which greeted William Mather, as he stepped upon the 
platform of the car and waved his hat to those assem 
bled there to see him oflf. Rose, who had meant at the 
very last to be so heroic, so brave, so worthy the wife ol 
a soldier, had fainted 


CHAPTER V. 


JIMMIE. 

'HERE were loving words being breathed into 
Rose’s ear, when she came back to consciotUK 
ness,' and there was something familiar in the 
touch of the hand bathing her brow, and smoothing her 
tangled hair, but Rose was too weak and sick to notice 
who it was caring for her so tenderly, until she heard 
the voice saying to her 



68 


BOSE MATHER 


“Is my daughter better 

And then she threw herself with a wild scream of joy 
into the arms which had cradled her babyhood, sobbing 
piteously: 

“ Oh, mother, mother, Willie has gone to the war I 
Willie has gone to the war I” 

It was 'Very strange, Hose thought, that her mcthei’i 
tears should flow so fast, and her face wear so sad an 
expression just because of WiU, who was nothing but 
her son-in-law. Then it occurred to her that Tom might 
be the occasion of her sadness, but when she spoke of 
him, asking why her mother had not prevailed on him 
to stay at home, Mrs. Carleton answered, promptly: 

“ I never loved him one-half so well, as on that night 
when he told me he had volunteered. He would be un- 
worthy of the Carleton blood he bears, were he to hesi- 
tate a moment !” and the eye of the brave New England 
matron kindled as she added: “If I had twenty sons, I 
would rather all should die on the Federal battle field 
than have one turn traitor to his country I Oh, Jimmie 
Jimmie^ my poor misguided boy I” 

It was a piteous cry which came from the depths oi 
that mother’s aching heart, — a cry so full of anguish that 
Rose was startled, and asked in much alarm what it was 
about Jimmie. Had she heard from him, and was he 
really dead ? 

“No, Rose,” and in the mother’s voice there was a 
Uard, bitter tone. “ No, not dead, but better so, than 
what he is. Oh, I would so much rather he had died 
when a little, innocent child, than live to bear the name 
he bears !” 

“ What name, mother ? What has Jimmie done ? Do 
teU me, you frighten me, you look so white !” and Rose 
dung closer to her mother, who, with quivering Kp and 


JIMMIE. 


69 


filtering voice, told her how recreant runaway Jimmie 
had joined the Confederate army under Beauregard, and 
was probably then marching on ^o Washington to meet 
her other son, in deadly conflict, it might be; his hand, 
the very one, perhaps, to sp^ed the fratricidal bullet 
which should shed a brother’s life-blood I 
No wonder that her heart grew faint when she thought 
of her boy as a i?e6ei, — ay'^ a rebel of ten times deeper 
dye than if he had been born of Southern blood, and 
reared on Southern soih for the roof-tree which sheltered 
his childhood was almost beneath the shadow of Bunker 
Hiirs monument, and many an hour had he sported at its 
base, playing directly above the graves of those brave 
men who fell that awful day when the fierce thunders of 
war shook the bills of Boston, and echoed across the 
smoky waters of the bay. Far up the lofty tower, too, 
as high as he could reach, his name was written with his 
own boyish hand, and the mother had read it there since 
receiving the shameful letter which told of his disgrace. 
Climbiug up the weary, winding flight of stairs, she had 
looked through bhnding tears upon that name, — James 
IVIadison Carleton, — half hoping it had been erased, it 
seemed so like a mookery to have it there on Freedom’s 
Monument, and know that he who bore it was a traitor to 
his country. Yet there it was, just as he left it years ago, 
and with a blush of shame the mother crossed it out, just 
as she fain would have crossed out his sin could that have 
been. But it could not. She Imew that Jimmie was in 
the Southern army, and not wishing to speak of it at 
home, where he already bore no envied name, she had 
come for sympathy to her only daughter; and it was well 
for both she did, for it helped to divert Kose’s grief into 
a new and different channel; to set her right on many 


70 


BOSK MOTHER 


points, and gradually to obliterate all marks of what sa at 
had called Secession. 

Tom had been her pride; the brother she honored 
feared, while Jimmie, nearer her age, was more a com- 
panion of her childhood; the one who teased and petu^ 
ner by turns, one day putting angle worms in her bosom 
just to hear her scream, and the next spending all hie 
pocket-money to buy her the huge wax doll she saw in 
the shop window, down on Washington street, and cov- 
eted so badly. Such were some of Eose’s reminiscences 
of Jimmie, and while time had softened down the horrid 
sensations she experienced when she felt the cold worms 
crawling on her neck, it had not destroyed the djoU, the 
handsomest she had ever o\vned, nor made her cease to 
love the teasing boy. She could not feel just as her 
mother did about him, for she had not her mother’s 
strong, patriotic feeling, but her tears flowed none the 
less, while she, too, half wished him lying beneath the 
summer grass, in beautiful Mt. Auburn. 

“ How did you hear from him ?” she asked, when her 
first burst of grief was over, and her mother replied by 
taking out a letter, on which Eose recognized her brother’s 
handwriting. 

“ He sent me this,” Mrs. Carleton said, and tearing 
open the letter, she read it aloud to Eose. 

“Richmond, Va., June, 1861. 

“Dear Mother: Pray don’t think you’ve seen a ghost when yoo 
lecognLze my writing. You thought me dead, I suppose, but there's 
no such good news as that. I’m bullet-proof, I reckon, or I should 
have died in New Orleans last summer when the yeUow fever and 1 
had such a squabble. I was dreadfully sick then, and half wished 1 
had not run away, for I knew you would fed batUy whjn you heard 
how 1 died with nobody to care for me, and was tumbled into the 
ground, head sticking out as likely as any way. I used to talk about 
you, old Martha said, and about Rose, too. Dear little Rose. | 


I 




Mtnally laid down my pen just now, and laughed alt ad as I thoi^.l 
how she locked when I treated her to those worms; telling her 1 h^<l 
a necklace for her ! Didn’t she dance and didn’t Tom thrash in<o, 
too, till I saw stars I Well, he never struck me a blow amiss, thour^d 
[ used to think he did. I was a sorry scamp, ma ther, — the bigg<d^ 
»8cal in Boston. But I’ve reformed- I have, upon my word, i 
foa ought to see how the people here smile upon and flatter me, tell./ 4 
me what a nice chap I am, and all that sort of thing. 

In short, mother, to come at once to the point, and not spe»?d 
an hour in arguing, as Tom used to do when he took me up in in© 
attic where he kept the gads, you know, — in short. I’ve been natutisl- 
ized, — have sworn allegiance to the future Southern monarchy, aj^d 
am as true a Southern blood as you would wish to see. I’ve got a 
Palmetto cockade on my cap,— a tiny Confederate flag on my sloeve, 
and what is best of all, I’ve joined the Southern army under Beaure- 
gard, and shall shortly bring the war to the threshold of the Capi- 
tol, licking the Yankees there congregated like fun. It’s about time 
now, mother, for you to ring for Margaret. You’ll want the camphor, 
and make a fuss, of course, so while you are enjojdng that diversion, 
I’ll go and practice a little with my gun. You know I could never 
hit a bam without shooting twice, but I’m improving fast, and shall 
soon be able to pick off a Yankee at a distance of a mile ! 

“ 2 o'clock, P. M. 

WeU, mother, I take it for granted you are nicely tucked up ir. 
oed, with the curtains drawn and a wet rag on your head, as the result 
of what I’ve told you. I’m sorry that you should feel so badly, and 
wish I could see you for an hour or so, as I could surely convince you 
we are right. We have been browbeaten and trodden upon by the 
North until forbearance has ceased to be a virtue, and now that 
they’ve thrown down the gauntlet we will meet them on their own 
terms. I dare say they have made you believe that we struck the 
Irst blow by firing into Sumter, but, mother, those northern paper* 
do lie BO, all except the Eerald, and a few others, which, occasionally 
©ome within a mile of the truth, but even they have been bribed r©- 
oently, or something. If you want the unbiased truth of the mattei 
iiibscribe for the Richmond Examiner, or better^ yet, the Charleston 
Mercarg, whose editor is a New England man, and of course is ca- 
pable ol judging light. He knows what has brought on Uds war 
He’ll teU you how the South Carolinians generously bcr^ the t^uh 


72 


BOSE Mather. 


of the Federal flag flying there defiantly in their faces until they oonld 
bear it no longer, and so one day we pitched in. 

“ I say toe, for I was there in Fort Moultrie, and saw the fight, bnl 
did not join, for the brave fellows, out of compliment to my having 
been bom near Bunker Hill, said I needn’t, so I mounted a cottoE 
bale Mid looked on, feeling. I’ll atlmit, some as I used to on the 
Fourth of July, when I saw how noble old Sumter played her part. 
And once, when a shell burst within ten feet of me, turning thingf 
generally topsy turvy, and blowing shirt sleeves and coat sleeves, 
Mid waistbands and boots, higher than a kite, I was positively guLty 
of hurrahing for the Stars and Stripes. I couldn’t help it, to save 
me. 

And yet, mother, I believe the North wrong, — and the South right, 
but so generous a people are we, that all we ask now, is for you to 
let us alone ; and if the Lincolnites won’t do that, why, then we must 
stoop to fight the mud-sills. It’s aU humbug, too, about the negroes 
being on the verge of insurrection. A more faithful, devoted set. I 
never saw. They’ll fight for their masters until they die, every man 
of them. Tom will tell you that. What are his politics ? Bell and 
Everett, I dare say, so there’s no danger of my meeting him in bat* 
tie, and I’m glac. of it, for to tell the tmth, I should feel rather tick- 
lish raising my gun against old Tom. May be, though, he is hum- 
bugged like the rest, and forms a part of that unit said to exist at the 
North. What sort of a thing is that, mother? What does it look 
like? Democrats an# Republicans, Abolitionists and Garrisonites, 
all melted in one crucible and bearing AhrahavrCs image and super- 
scription 1 I vdsh I could see it. Must have changed mightily round 
Boston from what they used to be when they quarreled so, some 
against and some for Southern rights and Southern people. But 
strange things happen nowadays, and it may be Tom, too, has turned 
his coat, and taken sides with the Federals. If so, all I can say, is, 
•Tommie, oh, Tommie, beware of the day, when Southern bloods 
meet thee in battle array; for a field of weak cowards rushes ful 
»n my sight, and the ranks of the Yankees are scattered in flight 
W on’t we rout them, though 1 I shall fight next time. I’ve played 
pcllywog long enough. I am regularly enlisted now. Am a JRebel, as 
you call us at home. Nothing very bad about that, either, as I can 
piDve to you, if you’ll take the trouble to hunt up my old dog-eared 
History of the United States, where Washington is stjded by the Brit- 
ish the Rebel Chi^. 

“ The South £u*e only doing what the Thirteen did in ’76, trying to 


JiJttMIK. 


73 


■hake :»ff the tyrant’s yoke. It’s the same thing precisely, Dnly the 
shoe ba on the other foot, and pinches mightily. We did not at first 
intend to subjugate the North, but maybe they’ll provoke us to do 
it, if they keep on. Now, however, we only want, or rather did want 
ft peaceable separation, and you may as well yield to it first as last 
What do you intend doing with us, any way, suppose you succei#d 
In licking us ? Hold us as a conquered province, just as England 
holds Ireland ? Much good that will do you. It will be some like 
keeping a mad dog chained so tightly that he cannot get away, but is 
none the less snappish and non-come-at-able for that. No, no, ac« 
knowledge our independence, and call home the chaps you *wve 
dragged from Poor Houses and State Prisons, lanes and di^efces, 
and sent to fight against Southern gentlemen. This, to me, is the 
most humiliating feature of the whole; and if I must be shot or taken 
prisonei, I hope it will be by some one worthy of my steeL This 
last I’m writing for old Tom’s benefit. Give him my compliments, 
and teU him nothing would please me more than to welcome him to 
our camp some day. 

“Dear little Bose, — perhaps she would not let a Rebel kiss her, 
and I don’t know but I’d turn Federal for half an hour or so for the 
sake of tasting her sweet lips once more. I do love Rose, and 1 feel 
a mysterious lump in my throat every time I look at her picture, 
taken just before I left home. I never show it, for somehow it 
would seem Uke profanation to have the soldiers staring at it. So I 
wear it next my heart, and when I go into battle I shall keep it 
there. Perhaps it will save my life, who knows ? 

“I am getting tired, and must close ere long. Now, mother, please 
don’t waste too many tears over me. The time will come when you’ll 
see we are right; and if it will be any consolation, I will say in conclu- 
sion, that I have written a heap worse than I really believe. I am 
not a fool. I imderstand exactly how the matter stands, but I like the 
Southern side the best. I think they are just as near right as the 
Noi-th, and I’m going to stick to them through thick and thin. We 
^hall hd\ e a battle before long, and this may be the last time I’U ever 
write to you . I’ve been a bad boy, mother, and troubled you uo 
much, but if I’m shot you will forget all that, and only remember 
Lew, vuth all my faults, I loved you still, — j’ou and Tom and little 
Rose, -more than you ever guessed. 

“By the way, I believe I’ll send you a lock of n y hair, out just 
over my left ear, where you used to think it curled so niccily* Per- 
haps it will enhance its value if you know I severed it with a bowM 

4 


V 


74 


ROSE M ATHER. 


knife, such as I now carry with me. Tell Eose I’ll send ner a calioa 
dress by and by. It will be the most costly present I can make hef 
if the blockade is carried out, but it won’t be ; that old Bull across 
the sea wiU be goring you with his horns first you know. Then 
you’ll have a sweet time up there, beset before and behind, and pos- 
sibly annexed to Canada. But I don’t want to make you feel ar.y 
bluer than you are probably feeling, so good bye, good bye. 

“ Tour affectionate Kebel, 

“James M. Caeleton.” 

“ P. S. — I shall send this to Washington by a chap who is going 
to desert, you. know, and join the Federals with a pitiful story about 
having been pressed into the Kebel service, teUing them, too, how 
noor and weak and demoralized we are, — how a handful of troops can 
lick us, and so draw them into our web, as a spider tempts a fly, don’t 
you see ? They offered me that honor, knowing that a son of Geoeob 
Caeleton, twice M. C. from Massachusetts, and now defunct, would 
be above suspicion, and would thus gather a heap of items. But 
hang me, if I could turn spy on any terms. So I respectfully de- 
clined. You see I am quite a somebody, owing to my having had 
sense enough to wait until I was twenty-one, ere I ran away, and so 
bringing a part of my property with me. Money makes the mare 
go here as elsewhere, but i’m about running out. I wish you 
could send me a few thousand, can't you ?” 

And this was Jimmie’s letter, over which the mother 
had wept far bitterer tears than any she shed when her 
eldest born bade her his last farewell, giving to her, just 
as Jimmie had done, a lock of his brown hair. She had it 
with her now, and she laid them both on Eose’s hand, — 
the dark bro'^Ti lock, and the short black silken curl, 
which twined itself around Eose’s finger, as if it loved the 
snowy resting-place. Eose’s first impulse was to shake 
it off as if it had been a guilty thing; but the sight of it 
recalled so vividly the handsome, saucy lace, and laugh- 
ing, mischievous black eyes it once had helped to shade, 
that she p)ressed it to her lips, and whispered sadly, 

“ Dear Jimmie, I cannot hate him if I try, nor see how he 
Ui greatly at fault,” while in her heart was the orirdmcxl 


JIMMIK 76 

prayer that God would care for the Rebel boy, and bring 
him back to them. 

Mrs. Carleton was proud of her family name, — proud a 
her family pride, — and she shrank from having it knowB 
how it had bee»f disgi’aced, so after Rose’s first grief wai 
dvei she bade her keep it a secret, and Rose promised 
readily, never doubting for a moment her ability to do ea 
Rose had already borne much that morning. Excessive 
weeping for her husband, added to what she had heard 
of Jimmie, took her strength away, and she spent that 
first weary day in bed, sometimes sobbing bitterly as the 
dread reality came over her that Will was really gone, 
and again starting up from a feverish, broken sleep with 
the idea that it was all a dream, or a horiid nightmare, 
from which she should at last awake. Callers were all 
excluded, and with a delicious feeling that she was not to 
be disturbed. Rose, late in the afternoon, lay watching 
the western sunhght dancing on the wall, when a step 
upon the stairs was heard, and in a moment Widow 
Simms appeared, her sharp face softening into an expres- 
sion of genuine pity when she saw how white and wan 
Rose w as looking. 

“ They tried to keep me out,” she said, “ that brawny 
cook of yours and that filigree waiting-maid, but I would 
come up, and here I am.” 

Then sitting down by Rose she told her Annie had 
sent her there. “ She’s sorry for you,” the widow said, 
“ and she sent this to tell you so,” and the widow handed 
Rose a tiny note, written by Annie Graham. Once Rose 
would have resented the act as imidying too much famili- 
,arity, but her ht'art was greatly softened, while, had she 
tried her best, she could not have regarded Annie Gra* 
bam in the lignt of an infenor. Tearing open the 
Tolopo sh^ reatl : 


f6 


ROSE MATHER. 


*’Mt deae Mbs. Mathee— I am sure yon will pardon ihe liberty 1 
4m taking. My apology is that I feel so deeply for you, for I undei 
itand just what you are suffering, — understand how wearily the 
aours drag on, knowing as you do that with the weaning daylight his 
step will njt be heard just by the door, making in your heart little 
‘iirobs of joy, such as no other step can make. I am so sorry for you, 
vnJ I bad hoped you at least might be spared, but God in his wis- 
lorn has seen fit to order it otherwise, and we know that what He 
does is right. Still it is hard to beATi— harder for you than for me, 
perhaps, and when this mororng I Ee«rd the car signal given, I knell 
just whore I did when my own husband went away, and asked oui 
Heaf enly Father to bring your Willie back in safety, and, Mrs. Ma- 
ther, I am sure He will, for I felt, even then, an answer to my prayer, 
—something which said, ‘ It shall be as you ask. ’ 

“Dear Mrs. Mather, try to be comforted; try to see the brightei 
side; try to pray, and be sure the darkness now enveloping you so 
like a pall will pass away, and the sunshine be the brighter for th« 
cloud. Come and see me when you feel like it, and remember, you 
have at least two friends who pray for you, one at the Father’s right 
hand in Heaven, and one in her cottage in the Hollow. 

“Annie Graham.” 

Rose had not wept more passionately than she did 
now, as she kissed the note, and wished she were one 
half as good as Annie Graham. 

“ But I am not,” she said, “ and never shall be. TeD 
her to keep praying until Will comes home again.” 

“ I will tell her,” returned the widow, “ but wouldn’t 
it be well enough to try what you can do at it yourself, 
and not leave it all for her ?” 

“Try what I can do at praying?” Rose exclaimed. 

I can’t do anything, only the few words I always say 
it night, and they have nothing in them about WilL” 
“Brought up like a heathen I” muttered the widow, 
feeling within herself that to the names of her own sons 
Mid Captain Carletoii, William Mather’s must now be 
^dded, when, as was her daily custom, she .took her 
troubles to One who has said, “ Cast you burdens upon 
the Lord, for He careth for you.” 


JIMICDL 


n 

“ WeTl both remember your husband, Miss Graham 
and T, so don’t fret yourself to death,” she said, sooth- 
inglj as Rose broke into a fresh burst of tears. 

It isn’t him so much,” Rose sobbed, “ though that « 
terrible and will kill me, I most know, but there’s some^ 
thing else that ails me a great deal worse than that; at 
least, mother has made me think it is, though I can’t 
fndte see how having one’s brother join the Rebel army 
is so very bad.” 

Rose forgot her promise of secrecy, just as her mother 
might have known she would. The story of the Carle- 
ton disgrace was told, and perfectly aghast, the horrified 
widow listened to it. 

“Your brother a rebel?” she almost shrieked, “a 
good-for-nothing, ill-begotten rebel I I thought you said 
he was a captain of a company;” and mentally the wid- 
ow struck from her list of names that of poor, scandal- 
ized Tom, that very moment perspiring at every pore as 
he went through with his evening drill within the Fed- 
eral camp. 

“No, no,” Rose cried, vehemently, “not Tom; I 
have another brother, a younger one, — Jimmie we call 
him. Did you never hear of Jimmie, who ran away more 
than a year ago ?” 

“ Never I” and the staunch patriot of a widow pursed 
np her thin hps with an expression which plainly said 
the Carleton family had fallen greatly m her estimation, 
in spite of aU Tom had said of Isaac. 

Rose, however, was not good at reading expressions, 
and taking it for granted the widow wanted to hear afi 
about it, she told her what she knew, marvemng much al 
the rigid silence her auditor maintained. 

“Isn’t it shameful?” she asked, when she had fin- 

khed. 


ROSE MATHER. 


rs 

“Shameful? Yes. I hope hell be catched and htm|| 
higher than Haman. I’ll fuimish ro^e to hang himl’ 
was the ind^!gnant widow’s reply, and ere Kose could 
quite make out what ailed her, she had said good-aftei* 
noon, and langing the door behind her, was huiT} ing 
0% muttering to herself, “Somethin’ wrong in their 
bringin’ up. Needn’t tell me. I’d like to see my boys 
turnin’ traitor I The rascal I” and as by this time the 
widow had reached the shop where she was to stop for 
burning-fluid, she turned into the little store, and catch- 
ing up the can with a jerk, spilt a part of its contents 
upon her clean gingham dress, and then hurried off again 
with rapid strides toward the cottage in the Hollow. 

The C’arletons, Tom and all, were below par in her 
opinion, and kept sinking lower and lower, until she 
reached the cottage, where she gave vent tc her wrath 
as follows : 

“A pretty how d’ye do up to Miss Martherses. Her 
brother Jim has jined the cowardly, sneakin’, low-lived, 
contemptible Rebels, and is cornin’ on to take Washing- 
ton! The scalliwagi If things go on at this rate, I’ll 
jine the army myself, and tar and feather every one on 
’em I Needn’t teU me.” 

Annie was no lover of gossip, and knowing that the 
widow was terribly excited, she made no reply except to 
pass her a letter bearing the Washington postmark 
This had the desired effect, and utterly oblivious of Jim- 
mie, the widow tore open Isaac's letter, in which he spoke 
of Captain Carle ton as being very kind to him, and very 
^opulai with the soldiers. 

“I would fight for him till the very last,” Isaac wrote; “he has 
been so good to me, always noticing me with a bow when he cornel 
into OUT regiment, as he sometimes does, and when he can, speaking 
to me a pleasant word. Ho knows I sawed his sister’s wood, for 1 
told him so. It seemed so mean-hke to be passing mysell off for bettei 


IIMMIE. 


78 


eban I am, and you know a soldier’s dress does improve a chap 
mightily, giving him kind of a dandy air. Why, even Harry Bakei 
and Bill look like gentlemen, though Harry gets drunk awfully, and 
has been m the guard-house twice, But, as I was saying. Captain 
Carleton didn’t appear to think a bit less of me, though ho stnwk 
me on the shoulder, and laughed kind of queer when I said why 2 
told him I sawed Mrs. Mather’s wood, and the next day I saw bini 
talking with our colonel, and heard something about sergeant, and 
Itaac Simmst and ‘too young to be expedient.’ Then, when I met 
him again, he asked me wasn’t I twenty-one, in such a way that 1 
knew he wanted me to tell him yes ; but, mother, 1 thought of that 
prayer we said together, the morning I came away, ‘Lead us not 
into temptation,’ and I couldn’t tell a lie, though the answer stuck 
in my throat and choked me so, but I out with it at last. I said, 

‘ No, sir, I was only eighteen last Thanksgiving,’ and then his laoe 
had the same look it wore when I told him I was a wood-sawyer. ‘And 
so I suppose you’ll be nineteen next Thanksgiving,’ he said, adding 
— ‘ You don’t know what you lost by telling the truth so frankly, 
but the moral gain is much greater than the loss. You are a brave 
boy, Isaac Simms, and worthy of being a second George Washing 
ton.’ I do Use him so much 1 Can’t you send him something, 
mother, if it’s nothing more than the nice cough-candy you used tc 
make, or some of that poke-ointment ? I notice he coughs occasion- 
ally, and I heard him say his feet were sore. I’d like to give him 
something, just to see hhi handsome white teeth when he laughed, 
and said ‘Thank you, my l^oy** Oh, I would almost die for Captain 
Carleton.” 

Surely, after reading this, the widow could feel no 
more animosity against the Carletons, on account ol 
Jimmie’s sin- 

** Every family mrst have a black sheep,” she said to 
Annie, though where hers was she could not telL It 
surely was not John, nor Eli, nor Isaac, so she guessed 
it must have been the girl-baby that died berore ’twas 
bom, and for whom she shed so many tears. She 
shouhln’t do it again, she’d bet, for if it had lived, it 
would most likely have cut up some rusty or other, just 
fU9 Jim Carleton had, — married BiU Bakery like as not } 


80 


BOSE MATHEB. 


and with this consolatory reflection, the widow took ij 
Isaac’s letter for a second time, resolving in her own 
mind that she would send that Captain Carleton somo' 
thing if she set up nights to make it. 

“I’m glad my boy didn’t teU a lie,” she whispercf^ 
softly to herself, as she came again to that part of thft 
letter, poor, weak human nature creeping in with the 
same thought, and suggesting how grand it would be to 
have him “Sergeant Simms, with the increased wages 
per month it would have brought. ’ This was tkfe old 
Adam counselling within her, while the new Adam said, 
“ Better never to be promoted than lose his integrity,” 
and with a silent prayer for the boy who would not teU 
a lie, the widow folded up the letter, and then repeated 
to Annie the particulars of Jimmie Carleton in a much 
milder manner than she would have done an hour before. 
So much good little acts of kindness do, stretching on 
link after link, until they reach a point from which they 
recoil in blessings on the doer’s head. Thus Captain 
Carleton’s friendly words to Isaac Simms were the direct 
means of saving his mother and sister from the bitter 
prejudice the Bockland people, in their then excitable 
state, might have felt toward them, had Widow Simms 
told the story of Jimmie in the spirit she surely would 
have told it, had it not been for Isaac’s timely letter. 
This, together with a little judicious caution from Annie* 
changed her tactics, and though she, that very nigh^ 
had several opportunities for telling how “ IVIiss Marther* 
ses brother was a rebel, and that Miss Marthers couldn’t 
see the mighty harm in it if he was,” she kept it to 
herself, speaking only of the noble Tom. so kind to hel 
boy Isaac. 


FTNUIKG SOMETHING TO Da 


81 


CHAPTER VL 

UNDDTQ SOMETHING TO DO FOR THE WAR. 

jSfflrHE next morning the Mather carriage^ containing 

’’5^^ both Mrs. Carleton and Rose, drove down the 
^ Hollow, and stopped in fi*ont of Annie’s gate, 
Mrs. Carleton’s business was with Widow Simms, • w'ho 
was mixing bread in the kitchen, and who experienced 
considerable trepidation when told “ the grand Boston 
lady ” had asked for her. 

“ I’m pesky glad I hain’t tattled about Jim,” she 
thought, as washing the flour from her hands and 
hooking her sleeves at the wrist she entered the sitting 
room, and with a low courtesy, waited to hear the lady’l 
errand. 

IVIrs. Carleton had come with a request that the widow 
should not repeat what Rose had so heedlessly told her 
the previous night. 

“ You may think it strange that I care so much,” Mrs. 
Carleton said, “ and until you are placed in similar cir- 
cumstances you cannot understand how I shrink from 
having it known that my son could fall so low, or do so 
great injustice to his early training.” 

If the widow had possessed one particle of i)rejudice 
against the Carletons, this would have disarmed her en- 
tirely, but she did not. Isaac’s letter had swept that all 
away, and she replied that “ Jimmie’s secret was as safe 
with her as if locked up in an iron chest.” 

“ I did feel blazin’ mad at you, though, for a spell,” 
she saia, “ for I thought you might have brung him up 
better; but this cured ijie entirely,” and she handed 
Isaac’s letter to Rose, bidding her read it aloud. 

4 * 


BOSE MATHER. 


02 


“Noble boy* You must be proud of him,” \vas Mra 
Carleton’s comment, while Eose, ever impulsive, seized 
upon a new idea. 

It would be so nice for the Eockland ladies to fit up & 
\'Ox of things and send to Company E, reserving a cor- 
ner for Tom and Will. She should do it, anyway, on 
her own responsibility, if nobody chose to help her, and 
she whisi^ered to Annie that George should have a large 
share of the delicacies she would provide. 

“ You may send that candy to Tom, if you choose,” 
she said to the widow, “though I think coj liver oil 
would be better. And the ointment too, — only it mustn’t 
sit near my preserves, for fear the two will get mixed.” 

Eose had found something to do, and so absorbed was 
she in a plan which every one approved, that she forgot 
to cry aU the time for WHly as she had fuUy intended do- 
ing. Up the streets and down she went, sometimei 
walking, sometimes riding, but always in a flurry, always 
excited, now tumbling over dry-goods boxes: in quest of 
one large enough to hold the many articles preparing in 
Eockland for the then iU-fed, suffering soldiers of the 
ASth Eegiment, now up at the express office, bargaining 
about the expense, which she meant to bear herself, and now 
down at the Hall, adroitly smoothing over little bicker- 
ings frequently arising among the ladies assembled there, 
concerning the articles sent in, some declaring the fried 
apple pies brought by Mrs. Baker should not go, nor 
yet the round balls of Dutch cheese she had saved sour 
milk two weeks to make, just because “ Billy relished i* 
30 much, long with apple turnovers.” 

Poor old Mrs. Baker I It was the best she could do, and 
when Eose saw how the tears came at the prospect oj 
BiUy’s losing the feast she had prepared with so much 
lare, she declared the cheese should go if she had to sen i it 


* 


FlNmNG SOMETHING TO DO. 


85 


in a separate box. It was just so with the widow’s pots 
ointment, some of the ladies wondering what next would 
be brought in and what it could be for. Rose knev^ 
exactly what ’twas for; Tom had corns, and the despised 
salve was for him, so that should go if nothing elso 
Rut when Suson Ruggles Simms, her thoughts intent on 
•/u/in, brought in a round of roasted veal, which her 
mother-in-law said would be in a most lively condition 
by the time it reached Washington, Rose, after suggest- 
ing that it be packed in ice and put in a refrigerator, 
yielded for once, and persuaded the girl-wife to carry 
home her veal, which would most surely be spoiled ere 
John came to see it. 

“ You can write him a nice long letter,” she said, when 
she saw how disappointed Susan looked. “ You can tell 
him your intentions were good tmtil we old experienced 
married ladies persuaded you out c'f them.” 

So Susan, with a sigh, carried back her nice stuffed 
roast, the widow muttering in an aside tone, “ That’s all 
them shiftless Ruggleses know! Might as well send 
m iggits and done with it.” 

It was a strange medley that huge box contained, for 
e'^ery member of Company R was remembered, thanks 
to the indefatigable Rose, who procured a list ^f the 
names, and when she found any without friends in that 
immediate vicinity, she supplied the deficiency from her 
own store of luxuries. Of course Will and Tom fared the 
best, while next to them came Lieutenant Graham and 
Isaac Simms, Rose writing a tiny note to the latter, tell- 
ing him how much she Hked him for speaking so of Tom, 
and sending him a pair of her fine linen sheets, because 
ihe couldn’t think of anything else, and thought these 
would be cool to sleep in on hot summer nights. Deal- 
tittle Rose I how ^ast she grew in popularity, the x)©oplf 


84 


SOS£ Ilf A.TH EfCi 


wondering they had never seen before how good she wa«^ 
and imputing some portion of her present interest to thi 
presence of her mother, who had made arrangements to 
remain for an indefinite length of time in Rockland, and 
who, far less demonstrative than her active daughter, 
did much by her sensible advice to keep the wheel in 
motion^ and Rose from overdoing the matter so zealously 
taken in hand. 

The box was packed at last ; — every chink and crevice 
was full. Mrs. Baker’s Dutch cheese and fried apple 
pies were there, wrapped by Rose Mather in innumera- 
ble folds of paper, tied around with yards of the strong- 
est twine she could find, and safely stowed away where 
they could not be harmed ; Widow Simms’s ointment 
too, and the candy she had made, occupied a corner, to- 
gether with her daguerreotype sent to Isaac, and a letter 
to Captain Carleton. That letter was a mammoth under- 
taking, but the widow felt it her duty to write it, groan- 
ing and sweating, and consulting Perry’s old leathern- 
bound dictionary for every word of which she felt at all 
uncertain, and driving poor Annie nearly distracted 
with asking “ if this were grammar, and if that were too 
lovin’ like, for a widder to send a widower.” Not a little 
amused, Annie gave the required advice, smiling in spite 
of herself, as she read the note the widow handed her, 
and which ran as follows: 

“ Mt deab Mb. Captin Cableton : — I can’t help puttin’ dear before 
your name, you seem so nigh to me since Isaac told how kind yon 
was to him. I’m nothin’ but a shrivelled, dried up widder, fifty odd 
years old, but I’ve got a mother’s heart big enough to take you in 
with my other boys. I know you are a nice, clever man, bnl 
whether you’re a good one, as I call good, I don’t know, though bein' 
you come from Boston I’m afraid you’re a Unitarian, and I’ll neve* 
fuit prayin’ for you till I know That’s about all I can do, for I’m 
i^oor a’moet as Job’s turkey; but if there’s any shirts or trouses, or thi 


nnXINQ SOMETHING TO DO 



like o’ that wants makin’, let me know, for I doi t Leliere youl 
mothoT or sister is great at sewin’. Mrs. Marthers ain’t, I know, 
thongt as nice a little body as ever drawed the breath. Your wife 'S 
dead, too, they say, and that comes hard agin. I know just how 
that feels, for my man died eighteen years ago last October, a few 
weeks before Is ap^c was bom. 

“ I send you some intment for your feet, and some bits of linea 
rags to bind round your toes ; also, some red pepper candy, and my 
likeness to Isaac. He’ll let you see it if you want to. It don’t ’pear 
to me that my eyes is as dull as that, or my lips so puckered up, but 
we can’t see as others see us, and I ain’t an atom proud. Heaven 
bless you for being k i nd to Isaac, and if an old woman’s prayers and 
blestdn’s is of any use, you may be srure you have mine. If you 
come to battle, be so good as to oversee him, won’t you, and git hit^ 
pul way back, if you can. Excuse haste and a bad pen. 

Yours with regret, 

“Mrs. Belinda Simms,” 

This was the widow’s letter, sent with Tom’s parcel to 
Washington, where the box was greeted by the company 
with exclamations of joy, and could those who sent it 
have seen the eager, happy faces of each one as he found 
he was remembered, they w'ould have felt doubly repaid 
for all the trouble and annoyance it had cost them. 
Only one growl of dissatisfaction was heard, and that 
from Harry Baker, who, with a muttered oath, exclaimed, 
as he undid his paper parcel, 

“Apple turnovers, by jingl Sourer than swUl, and 
mouldier than the rot. Halloo, Bill, got some too, I see. 
What in fury is this ? Dut^h cheese, as I’m ahve. Make 
good bullets for Secesh, so here goes!” and the next 
moment there whizzed through the air the cheese poor 
old Mrs. Baker had found so hard to smuggle in. Thf 
apple pies followed next, and then the reckless Harry 
amused himself with jeering at Bill, who, after carefully 
stowing away in his pocket, the large, strong twine Bos« 
Hather had bound around the paper parcel, seated him* 


86 


ROSE MATHER 


self tipon the ground, and was munching away at hit 
pie, not because he liked it, but because his mother had 
Bent it, and Billy’s mother was dearer to him now than 
when he was at home. 

Meanwhile, in another part of the camp, Tom Carletor 
was opening his parcel, while around him stood a group 
of officers, some his personal friends whom he had known 
in Boston. 

‘‘ There must be some mistake,” he said, as he daubed 
his white fingers with the sticky candy. But Rose had 
packed his things in a separate box, and directed it her- 
self. There could be no mistake, and he continued his 
investigations, coming next upon the widow’s picture, 
which Rose had carelessly placed in his parcel. 

It would be impossible to describe Tom’s look of 
amazement and perplexity, as his eye fell upon the face 
which looked out upon him from its glass covering. 
Precise, puckered, and prim, with a decided best-clothes 
air. Who could it be ? Tom asked this question aloud, 
while his companions laughingly declared it some lady 
love he had left behind, suggesting at last that he read 
the note which lay just beneath it, as that might explain 
the mystery. So Tom did read it, with a feUow-officer 
looking over his shoulder, and reading too. But there 
was too much of the anxious, genuine mother-tone abou4 
that letter to cause more than three or four hearty 
laughs at the expense of Tom and the widow. Tom 
knew now for whom the picture was intended, and he 
carried it to Isaac, but it was many a day ere Tom Carle- 
ton heard the last of Mrs. Belinda Simms I 

Numerous were the thanks sent by Company R to 
Rose for her kind thoughtfulness in setting afloat a plan 
which brought them so much good, and Rose, as she 
received the messages, wished it was all to be done 


FINDING SOMETHING TO DO 


87 


again, and wondered what she could find to do next. 
One of Will’s letters told her at last what to do. She could 
be kind to the soldiers, if there were any in Rockland. 
She could visit their families, speak to them words ol 
comfort, and supply, if needful, their necessities. This 
was just what suited her, and she commenced her tafik 
with a right good wiU, startling many an awkward youth 
wearing a soldier’s dress, by accosting him in the street, 
inquiring into his history, and frequently ending the in- 
terview by offering him her soft white hand, and leaving 
in his rougher one a piece of money, which affected him 
less than the brightness of the brilliant eyes he remem- 
bered long after the silver was spent. Every soldier’s 
wife and every soldier’s mother was looked after, and 
the Mather carriage was oftener seen in the muddy Hol- 
low and by lanes in Rockland, than at the gates of more 
pretentious dwellings. Harry’s mother and Bill’s, and 
others of her standing, blessed the little lady, for the 
sunshine brought so often to their squalid homes, while 
Annie and Widow Simms prayed from a full heart that 
no evil should befall the husband or the brother of the 
heroic Rose, 


CHAPTER Vn. 

THE BATTLE. 

RIGHTLY, beautifully the Sabbath morning Drohs 
over all the hiUs of the Northland, covering them 

_ with floods of rosy light, burnishing the forest 

trees with sheens of gold, and cresting each tall spire 
with colors which seemed bom of Paradise, so radiantly 
blight they looked, flashing from their lofty ^estm€^ 



B06E MATHER 


place, and glancing off across the valioys where thf 
fields of waving corn and summer w heat w'ere growing. 
To the westward, too, where prairie on prairie stretchej 
on into almost interminable space, the same July sun 
was shining, as quietly, as peacefully, as if in the heart® 
of men there burned no bitter feeling of fierce and vin* 
dictive hate, — no thirsting for each other’s blood. Oh, 
how calm, how still it was that Sunday morning both 
east, and north and west, and as the sun rose higher in 
the heavens, how soothingly the beUs rang out their mu- 
sical chimes. From New England’s templed hiUs to the 
far-off shores of Oregon, the echoes rose and fell, ceasing 
only when ceased the tramp of the many feet hastening 
up to worship God in his appointed way. Old and 
young, rich and poor, father and mother, sister and 
brother, husband and w^ife, assembling together to keep 
the holy day, that best day of the seven, praying not so 
much for their own sins forgiven as for the loved ones 
gone to war, — the dear ones far away, — and little, httle 
dreaming as they prayed, how the same sun stealing so 
softly up the church’s aisle, and shining on the church’s 
wall, was even then looking down on a far different 
scene, — a scene of carnage, blood and death. For, off to 
the southward, near where the waters of the Fotomao 
ripple past the grave of our nation’s hero, another con- 
course of people was gathered together; their Sunday bi»l) 
the cannon’s roar; their Sunday hymn the battle-cry. 

Long before the earliest robin had triUed its malU 
song, they had been on the move, their bristling bayonets 
glittering in the brilliant moonlight like the December 
frost, a s Avith regular, even tread they kept on their wind- 
ing way, Lnowing not if the pale stars watching their 
course so pityingly, as it were, would ever shine on them 
a^^ain. Onward, — onward, — onward stiU they pressed ; 


THE BATTLE. 


89 


over the hills, through the ravines, down the valleys, acrosi 
the fields, till the same sun which shone so softly on rheii 
distant homes rose also over the Federal Fly, as it nas 
been aptly termed, moving onward to the Web which lay be 
f<ynd, so well concealed and so devoid of sound that non* 
Bould guess that the treacherous woods, wealing so cool, 
»o inviting a look, were sheltering a mighty, expectant 
host, watching as eagerly for the advancing foe as evei 
ambushed spider waited for its deluded prey. Backward, 
“backward, stretched the Confederate army, line after 
line, rank after rank, battalion after battalion, until in 
numbers it more than quadrupled that handful of men 
steadily moving on. From out their leafy covert the en- 
♦ emy peered, exulting that the fortunes of the great Re- 
public, their whilom mother, were so surely within their 
power, and pausing for a time in sheer wantonness, just 
as a kitten sports with the mouse she has akeady cap- 
tured, and knows cannot escape. Onward, — onward, — 
onward swept the Federal troops; their polished arms 
and glittering uniforms flashing in the morning sunlight 
just as the flag for which they fought waved in the m.om- 
ing breeze. They were weary and worn, and their lips 
were parched with feverish thirst, for hours had passed 
since they had tasted food or water. But not for this did 
they tarry; there was no faltering in their ranks, no faint- 
ly beating heart, no wild yearning to bo away, no timid 
shrinking fi’om what the Tfoods, now just before them, 
might hold in store, and when the whisper ran fJong the 
lines that the enemy was in view ther^ was nought felt 
«ave joy, that the long suspense was endei and Uie titey 
«bout to con^nence. 


There was a halt in the front ranks, and while they 
ftand there thu^ lot us look once more upon tl'oe^ 


90 


BOSE MATHKB. 


we have known. Just where the good humored faces ol 
the Irish regiment, and the tall caps of the Highlanders 
are perceptible, the 13th appears in view, our company 
inarching decorously on, no lagging, no faltering, nc 
cowards there, though almost every heart had in i 
some thought of home and the dear ones left behind 
Prayers were said by lips unused to pray, and who shall 
tell how many records of sins forgiven were that morn- 
ing written in heaven? Bibles, too, were pressed to 
throbbing hearts, and to none more closely than tc 
George Graham’s broad chest. He had prayed that 
morning in the clear moonlight, and by the same moon- 
light he had tried to read a line in Annie’s well-worn 
Bible, opening to where God promises to care for the 
widow and the fatherless. Was it ominous, that passage 1 
Did it mean that he, so strong, so vigorous, so full of life, 
should bite the dust ere many hours were done? He 
could not believe it. He was too full of hope for that. 
He could not die with Annie at home alone, so he but- 
toned her Bible over his heart, and prayed that if a bul- 
let struck him it might be there, fondly hoping that 
would break its force. 

There was a shadow on his handsome face, and it com- 
municated itself to Isaac Simms, who was glancing so 
stealthily at him, and guessing of what he was thinking. 
Isaac, too, had prayed in the moonlight, and he, too, had 
thought, “What if I should be killed!” wondering if 
his mother ever would forget her soldier boy, even though 
she might not weep over his nameless grave. This to 
Isaac was the hardest thought of all. The boy that would 
not tell a lie for the sake of promotion, was not afrtid to 
die, but he preferred that it should not be there ’mid piles oi 
bloody slain. He would rather death should come to him 
up in the humble attic, where he had lain so oft and list 


THE BATTLE- 


9i 


ened tc the patter of the rain on the roof above, oi 
feigned to be asleep when his mother stole noiselesalj 
across the threshold to see if he were covered from thi 
sold and shielded from the snow, which sometimes foiin4 
in entrance through a crevice in the wall. ’Tis strange 
svhen we are in danger what flights our fancy often takes, 
gathering up the minutest details of our past Ufe, and 
spreading them out before us with startling distinctness. 
So Isaac, with possible death in advance, thought of hia 
past life; of every object connected with his home, from 
the gi ass jdat in the rear, where his mother bleached her 
clothes in spring, to the blue and white checked blanket 
hung round his attic bed to protect him from the winter 
storm. That widow, so stern, so harsh, so sharp to ab 
most every one, had been the tenderest of parents to him, 
and a tear glistened on the cheek of the fair-haired boy 
as he remembered the only time he ever was hateful to 
her. He had asked her forgiveness for it, and she surely 
would not recall it when she read the letter Eli or John 
would send, bearing the fatal line, “ Mother, poor Isaac 
is dead.” He knew they would call him “ poor Isaac,” 
for though they sometimes teased him as his “mother’s 
great girl baby,” they petted him quite as much as she, 
only in a different way, and he felt now that both would 
step between him and the bullet they thought would 
harm him. Eli would any way, but John, perhaps, would 
hesitate, as he now loved Susan best. Isaac was proud 
of his brothers, and he glanced admiringly at them aa 
they marched side by side, keeping even step just as they 
did down Main street, with his mother and Susan looking 
on. One now was thinking of Susan, and one of lus wid- 
owed mother. 

Close by Isaac walked Bill, quiet and subdued. H# 
hod not prayed that morning, — he never prayed; but 


92 


BOSE MATHER 


when he saw Isaac kneeling on his blanket he had said U 
him, “ Manage to get in a word or two for me and Hal; w« 
need it, mercy kno^vs.” And sui’ely if ever poor mor tal 
needed prayer it was J3aZ, as his brother styled him 
Half stupefied with the vile hquor he had constantly man 
aged to get, he trudged on, boasting of what he could do j 
“ oiJy give him a chance and he’d hck the entire Socessioi 
army. He’d like to see the ball that could kill him ; h« 
was good at dodging; he’d show ’em a thing or two in th6 
the way of fight; he’d take the tuck out of the Southerr 
gentlemen, — yes, he would,” and so he went thought 
lessly boasting on to death I 


Will Mather was not there. Indisposition had de- 
tained him at Washington, and with a hearty God speed 
he had sent his comrades on their way, lamenting that 
he, too, could not join them, and bidding his brother-in 
law do some fighting for him. 


At the head of his company Capt. Carleton moved. 
Firm, erect, and dignified, as if bom to command, he did 
full justice to the Carleton name, of which he was justly 
proud ; but his face was paler than its wont, and a tinge 
of sadness rested upon it as his regiment halted at last ir 
front of what was supposed to be the hidden foe. Thorn a# 
Carleton had wept bitter tears when he laid his Mary to re«t 
beneath South Carolina’s sunny skies, and had thought 
he could never be reconciled to the loss, but he was hail 
glad now that she was dead, for she was bora of South- 
ern blood, and he would rather she should not know the 
•rrand which had brought him to Virginia, where first hf 


THE RATTLE. 


9fi 


met and loved her, — rather she should not knoT? how hi 
had come to war with her people. There was another 
thought, too, which made him sad that July day. The 
green, beautiful woods standing there so silently befort 
him probably sheltered more than one with whom he had 
in bygone days struck the friendly hand and bandied the 
friendly joke, for his home was once in Eichmond, and 
there were there those who once held no small place in hia 
heart. And they were dear to him yet. He was not figh4r 
ing against them personally, he was contending only for hia 
nation’s rights, his country’s honor. He bore no mahce to- 
ward his Southern brethren, and like many of our staunch- 
est, bravest Northern men, he would even then have met 
them more than half way with terms of reconcihation. He 
(mew they were no race of bloodthirsty demons, as some 
fanatics had madly termed them. They were men, most 
of them, like himself, — warm-hearted, impulsive men, 
generous almost to a fault in peace, but firm and terrible 
in war. Tam had lived among them, — had shared their 
hospitalities, — had seen them in their various phases, and 
making allowance for the vast difference which education 
and habits of society make m one’s opinions, he saw 
many points wherein the North had misunderstood their 
actions, and not made due concessions when they might 
have done so without yielding one iota of their honor. 
But time for concession was over now. Pohtical fana- 
tics had stirred up the mass of the people till nought but 
Wood could wash away the fancied ^vrong. And they 
were there that Sabbath mom to spill it. Tom, however, 
did not know that the green, silent woods sheltered his 
brother, for his mother had pui’posely withheld from him 
the fact that Jimmie had joined the Southern Army. 
She knew the struggle it had cost him to take up armi 
against a people he liked so much, and sh® would not wiJ- 


94 


ROSE MAIHEE. 


lingly add to his burden by teUiug him of Jimmie’s sin 
and it was well she did not, for had he known how neaj 
he was to Jimmie, he could not have stood there so ud- 
QiOTed, awaiting the first booming gun which should h6^ 
sdd the opening of the battle. 

It came at last, a bellowing, thunderous roar, whc«€ 
echoes shook the hiUs for miles, as the hissing shell 
went plowing through the air, bursting harmlessly at 
last just beyond its destined mark. The enemy were in 
no hurry to retort, for a deep silence ensued, broken ere 
long by another heavy gun, which did its work more 
thoroughly than its predecessor had done, for where sev- 
eral breathing souls had been there was nought left save 
the bleeding mutilated trunks of what were once human 
forms. The battle had commenced. Sherman’s Bri- 
gade, in which was the N. Y. 13th, did its part nobly, 
overrunning in its headlong charges battery after battery 
and recking little of the shafts of death falling so thick 
and fast. Louder and more deafening grew the battle 
din, hoarser and heavier the battle thunder, denser, 
deeper the battle smoke, dimming the brightness of that 
Sabl\ath morn. Louder, shriller gi'ew the Gaehc scream, 
fiercer rose the Celtic cry, wilder rang the yells of the 
13th, as its members plunged into the thickest of the fight 
their demoniacal shouts appalling the heajrts of the foe 
far more than the rain of shot so vigorously kept up, and 
causing them to flee as from a pack of fiends. 

Steady m its place George Graham’s giant form waa 
seen; no thought of Annie now; no thought of home; 
no thought of Bible buttoned over the heart; thoughtft 
only of the fray and victory. 

Not far away, and where the fight was thickest, 
the widow’s boys, Eli and John, stood firm as granite 
rooks, the beaded sweat dropping from their burning 


THE BATTLE. 


9h 


brows, begrimed with battle smoke, as with undmch* 
ing nerve and hands that trembled not, they took 
tl :8ir aims, seeing more than one fall before their sure 

fire. 

White as the winter snow one boyish face gleamed 
•mid the excited throng; the fair hair pushed back from 
the girlish forehead, and the scorching sun falling upon 
the unsheltered head, for Isaac’s cap had been shot away, 
and the ball which shot it lay swimming in the dark life 
blood of poor Harry Baker, just behind, and just two 
inches kJler than the widow’s youngest born. Poor 
Harry I He had done his best to keep the promise made 
so boastfully. In all the 13th Begiment there was not 
one who played a braver part then he, firing oJBf with 
every gun a timely joke, which raised a smile eren in 
that dreadful hour. But Harry’s work was done, and 
Mrs. Baker had but one boy now, for her first-born lay 
upon the ground so blackened and disfigui’ed, with the 
thick brains slowly oozing from his mangled head, and 
the purple gore pouring from his hps, that only those 
who saw him faU, could guess that it was Harry. Poor 
Harry 1 We say it again, sadly, reverently, for rude and 
reckless though he was, he fell fighting for his country ; 
and to all who perish thus we owe a debt of gratitude, a 
meed of praise. Sacred, then, be the memory of those 
whose graves are with the slain, far away beneath Vir- 
ginia’s sky, and sacred be the memory of poor Harry 
Baker. His own worst enemy, he lived his life’s brief 
ipan, and died at last a soldier’s death. 


‘‘Shot plump through the upper story I "Wont the 
old woman row it, though?” was Bill’s characteristic 


96 


ROSE MATHEB. 


comment, as tlie whizzing and the death shriek mot hi 
3 ar, and the falhng, bleeding figure met his view. 

Spite of nis jeering words there was a keen pang in 
Lilly’s heart as he shrank away from the gory mass be 
irnew had been his brother, — a sudden up-heaving (A 
jcmelhing in his throat and a blur before his vision, as 
h3 began to reahze what it was to go to war. But there 
was then no time to waste over a fallen brother. The 
dread work must go on, and with the whispered words, 
“ Poor Hal, I’ll do the tender for you when we get the 
varments licked,” he marked the position by signs he 
could not miss, and then pressed closer to his comrade, 
saying, as he did so — 

“ Ike, Hal’s a goner. Shot right through his top-knot, 
with a piece of your cap wedged in his skull. If you’d 
been a leetle taller you’d been scalped instead of Hal 
So much you get for bein' ‘ Stub.' ” 

Isaac shuddered involunterily, but ere he could look 
back the crowd behind pushed him forwai’d, and so he 
failed to see the ruin which, but for his short statui’e, 
would have come to him. There were no marks upon 
him yet, — nothing, save the uncovered head, to teU where 
he had been. The balls which struck down others passed 
him by, the wind they made lifting occasionally his fair 
hair, but doing no other damage. Above, around, be- 
fore, behind, at right, at left, the grape shot fell like hail, 
but left him all untouched, and Billy, grown timid since 
poor Harry’s fate, pressed closer to the boy who would 
not teU a lie, as if there were safety there. 

Onward, onward they pressed, Isaac wondering son^e- 
Umes how Tom Carleton fared, ami looking again in 
qnost of sheir young Lieutenant Graham, still towering 
above them all, hr spite of Bose’s prediction. The baU 


THE BATTLE. 


97 


for wliich he was the mark had not been fared yet, but it 
was coming. An Alabamian volunteer had singled out 
that form, yelling exultingly as he saw it reel and totlor 
like a broken reed. They were well matched in size, the 
two combatants, both splendid marks, as Kose had said, 
and Bill Baker’s sure aim froze the laugh upon the Ala- 
bamian’s lips and sent him staggering to the ground, 
just as Isaac received his captain’s orders to lead the 
fainting, wounded George to a place of comparative 
safety. 

“ It’s only my arm they’ve shattered,” George whis- 
pered, glancing sadly at the disabled limb over which 
Isaac’s tears were falling. “ WiU it kill me, think ?” was 
the next remark, prompted by a thought of Annie. 

Isaac did not believe it would, and with aU a woman’s 
tenderness he bound it up and held his canteen to the 
dps of the fainting, weary man, whispering, 

“ Water, boy, water.” 

Isaac had not, like many others, thrown his canteen 
away, and he gave freely to the thii’sty George, who, 
with each draught, felt his pulse grow stronger, while 
his eyes kindled with fresh zeal as the noise of the battle 
gi’ew louder, and seemed to be coming nearer. The on- 
slaught was terrible now. Cannon after cannon belched 
forth its terrific thunder, ball after ball sped on its deadly 
track, battery after battery opened its blazing fire, shell 
after shell cut the summer air, and burst with murderous 
hiss ; shout after shout rent the smoky sky, shriek after 
shriek went dowm with the rushing wind, officer after 
officer bit the dust, rank after rank was broken up, soul 
after soul went to the bar of God, and then there came 
a pause. The firing ceased, the stifling smoke roUed 
^adually away, and showed a dreadful sight, — men mu- 
5 


98 


ROSE MATHER 


tilated and tom, till not a vestige of tlieir former looki 
was left to tell who they had been. Mingled together, 
in one frightful mass, the dead and dying lay, smilea 
wreathing the livid lips of some, and frowns disfiguring 
k^'ithers. Arms, hands, and feet, heads, fingers, toes, and 
clots of human hair, dripping red with blood, were scat* 
tered over the field, — parts of the living mass we saw but 
a few hours agone moving on so hopefully beneath tho 
morning moonlight, “Like leaves of the forest when au- 
tumn hath blown,” they lay there now, their mangled re- 
mains crying loudly to Heaven for vengeance on the 
heads of those who brought this curse upon us. 


CHAPTER VHL 



THE RETREAT. 


HE day was ours, nobly won with sweat and tofl 
and blood, and the brave men who won it were 
thinking of the laurels so laboriously earned, 
when suddenly the entire scale was turned, and ere they 
knew what they were doing, the tired, jaded troops found 
themselves rushing headlong from the battle-field, never 
so much as casting a backward glance, but each striving 
to out-run the other, and so escape fi’om they knew not 
what I How that panic happened no one can tell. Some 
charged it to the reckless conduct of a band of Regulara 
•ent back for ammunition, and others upon the idle 
lookers-on, the curious ones, who had come “ to see the 
Rebels whipped,” and who at the first intimation of de* 


THE BETREAT. 


9ft 


feat joined in the general stampede, making ^he confu- 
sion worse, and adding greatly to the fright of the flying 
multitude. 

It was a strange retreat our soldiers made. Ail ia\»r 
and order were at an end, company mixed with 
sompany, regiment w«th regiment, and together they 
rushed headlong down the hill, many in their dismay 
for .ling the creek regardless of the shot and shell sent 
after them by the astonished foe, now really in pur- 
suit. 

Some there were, however, who made the retreat more 
leisurely, and among these, Bill Baker. Kemembering 
the mark he had fixed in his own mind, he sought among 
the slain for Harry, finding him at last, trampled and 
crushed by the flying troops, and wholly unrecognizable 
by any save a brother’s eye. Bill knew him, however, 
in a moment, but there was no time now to “ do the ten- 
der,” as he had purposed doing. There was danger in 
tarrying long, and with a shudder Bill bent over the 
mangled form, and with his jack-knife severed a lock ol 
matted, bloodwet hair, taking also from the pockets 
whatever of value they contaiued, not from any avari- 
cious motive, but rather from a feeling that the rebels 
should get nothing save the body. 

“ A darned sight good Hal’s carcass will do ye 1” he 
said, shaking his fist defiantly in the direction of the foe, 
“ but the wust is your own this hot weather, if you don’t 
bury him decently;” then turning to the Lifeless gore, he 
continued: “ Poor Hal ! I’m kinder sorry you are dead. 
You had now and then a streak of good about you, and 
Pm Sony we ever quarreled, I be, upon my word, and I 
wish you could hear me say so; but you can’t, knocked 
into a cocked up hat as you are, poor Hah If there was 


iOO 


ROSE MATHER. 


a spat on your face as big as a sixpence that wasn’t 
smashed into a jelly, I’d kiss you just for the old woman’i 
sake, but I swan if I can stomach it I I might youi 
hands, perhaps,” and bending lower. Bill’s lips touched 
the clammy fingers of the dead. 

There was something in the touch which brought to 
Bill’s heart a pang similar to the one he felt when he 
saw his brother fall, and rising to his feet, he said, 
moui'nfully: 

“ Good-bye, old B[al, I’m going now ; I wish you might 
go, too. Good-bye,” and wiping away a tear which felt 
much out of place on his rough cheek. Bill walked away, 
saying to himself, “ Poor Hal. I didn’t s’pose I had 
such a hankerin’ for him. Didn’t s’pose I cared for 
nobody; but such a day’s work as this finds the soft spot 
in a feller’s heart if he’s got any. Poor Hal ! Mother’ll 
nigh about raise the T^ff /” 

Thus sohloquizing Bill moved on, not rapidly as others 
did, but rather leisuiely than otherwise. He seemed to 
be benumbed, and did not care much what became ol 
himself. Wading the stream he trudged on, now won- 
dering “What the plague they all were running for, 
when they’d got the rascals licked,” and again anathe- 
matizing the shot which fell around him. 

“ S’pose I care for you,” he said, hitting a spent ball a 
kick. “ S’pose I care if I do get killed ? better do that 
than to run.” 

Then reflecting that to be shot in the bade was not 
considered a distinguished mark of honor, he hastened 
his lagging steps until the shelter of the wood was 
reached. Bill was very tired, and feeling comparatively 
•afe, determined not to travel farther until he had had 
•ome rest. Hunting out a thick clump of underbrush 


THE RETKEAT. 


lOi 


near a stream of water, where he would je sheltered 
from observation, he crawled into its midst, and was era 
long sleeping soundly, wholly oblivious to the strange 
sights and sounds around him, as squad after squad o? 
soldiers hurried by. 

Meanwhile George Graham was sitting faint and weary 
beneath the tree, when the first token of the retreat met 
his view. 

“ See, they are running,” Isaac said, grasping hia 
Bound arm in some alBight. “Let us run, too. You 
lean on me, and m lead you safely through.” 

With a bitter groan, George attempted to rise, bui 
sank back again from utter exhaustion. A species o* 
apathy had stolen over him, and he would rather stay 
there and die, he said, than make the attempt to flee. 
He did not think of Annie, until Isaac, bending down, 
said, entreatingly : 

“ It will be horrid for Annie to know you died, when 
you might have got away. Try for Annie’s sake, can’t 
you ?” 

Yes, for Annie’s sake he could, and at the mere men- 
of her name, the dim eye kindled, and the pale cheeks 
glowed, while the wounded man made another effort to 
rise. He succeeded this time, and with slow steps the 
two commenced their retreat. It was a novel sight, that 
tall, muscular man, towering head and shoulders above 
the fr’ail boy, upon whom he leaned heavily for support, 
— the generous Isaac, who would not leave him there 
alone, even though he knew the danger he was incurring 
frr himself. 

“ They’ll treat us decent if we’re taken prisoners, won't 
they, think ?” he asked, as the possibihty of such a calam 
ity was suggested to his mind. 


102 


ROSE MATHEK. 


Not till then had George thought of that llie^ 
would not murder a wounded man, he was sure, but 
they might take him prisoner, and death itself was al 
most preferable to days of captivity and sickening sus 
pense away from Annie. The very idea roused him inlc 
ife, and with a superhuman effort, he hastened on, ol 
most outrunning Isaac, until they, too, had reached Ihi 
friendly woods where Bill had already taken sheltei 
Just then a loaded wagon passed them, its frightened 
excited occupants paying no heed to Isaac’s cry for help, 
until one whose uniform showed him to be an officer, 
sprang up, exclaiming : 

“ The strong must give place to the wounded. I can 
find my way to Washington better than that bleeding 
man!” and Tom Carleton seized the reins with a grasp 
which brought the foaming steeds nearly to their 
haunches. The vehicle was stopped, and the next in- 
stant Tom had leaped upon the ground, spraining his 
ankle severely, and reeling in his first pain against the 
astounded Isaac, who cried out, joyfuUy : 

“ Oh, Captain Carleton, save Lieutenant Graham, won’t 
you? We can walk, you and 1.” 

Tom had not the least suspicion as to whom he was 
befriending until then, and now, unmindful of his own 
aching foot, he assisted George to the seat he had vacat- 
ed, and watched the party without a pang as they drove 
rapidly away, leaving him alone with Isaac. 

“We’ll do the best we can, my boy,” he said, cheerily, 
la he met the confiding, inquiring look bent upon him 
by Isaac, who, relieved of his former charge, felt now 
like leaning for protection and guidance upon Captain 
Carleton. 

Alas, his hopes were short-lived, for a groan just then 
escaped from Tom’s white bps, wrung out by the agon^ 


THE KETTKEAT. 


lOS 


it cost him to step. Isaac saw him stagger when h€ 
sprang to the ground, and comprehending the case ai 
once, he resumed his burden of care, and kneeling be- 
fore poor Tom, who had sunk upon the grass, he rubbed 
the swollen limb as tenderly as Kose herself could haT 
ione. 

If we could only find some water,” Tom said, scan • 
ning the appearance of the woods, and judging at last by 
indications which seldom failed, that there must be some 
not very far away. “ There where the bushes are,” he 
■aid, pointing toward the very spot where Bill lay 
moring soundly, and dreaming of robbing Pai’son 
Goodwin’s orchard, in company with Hal. “ There must 
be water there, and human beings too, for I hear singing, 
don’t you ?” 

Isaac listened till he, too, caught a strain of melody, as 
sad and low as if it were a funeral dirge some one was 
trilling there. 

“What can it mean?” Tom said. “Lend me your 
hand, my boy, and I’ll soon find out.” 

It was a harder task to move than he anticipated, for 
the ankle was swelling rapidly, and bearing the least 
weight upon it made the pain intolerable. Leaning on 
Isaac’s shoulder, he managed to make slow progress to- 
ward the stream bubbling so deliciously among the 
grass, and toward the music growing more and more dis- 
tinct. 

It was reached at last, and the mystery was solved. 
Leaning against a tree was a Confederate officer, whose 
white face told plainer than words could tell that never 
again would he be seen in the pine-shadowed home he 
had left so unwillingly but a few months before. Beside 
him upon the grass lay a boy, scarcely more than twelve 
fears old, a di’ummer in a company of New England 


104 


ROSE aiATHER. 


volunteers, both little hands shot eixirely off, and the 
bleeding stumps bound carefully up in the handkerchief 
of the Kebel, who had smothered his own dying anguish 
for the sake of comforting that poor child, sobbing sc 
uiteously with pain. 

“ I didn’t s’pose any of you was so good, or I shouldn 1 
nave come to fight you. Oh, mother, mother, they do 
ache so, — my hands, — my hands 1” he said, the cry of 
contrition ending in a childish wail for the mother sym* 
pathy never more to be experienced by that drummer 
boy. 

A smile flitted across the officer’s face as he replied 
“ ‘ Had we all known each other better, this war would 
not have been,” and the noble foe held the boy closer to 
his bleeding bosom, dipping his hand in the running 
stream, and laving the feverish brow where the drops 
of sweat were standing. 

“ What makes you so kind to me ?” the dying bo} 
asked, his dim eyes gazing wistfully into the face bend- 
ing so sadly over him. 

“ I have a boy about your size, — Charlie we call him,” 
the stranger said. 

“ And I am Charhe, too,” the child replied, “ Chai*He 
Younglove, and my home is in New Hampshire, right on 
the mountain side. Father is dead, and we are poor, 
mother and I. That’s why I came to the war. I wanted 
to go to college, sometime. Do you think I’ll die ? Will 
I never go home again ? — never see mother nor little sis 
ter either ?” 

The soldier groaned, and bent still closer to the drum- 
mer-boy, asking so earnestly if he must die. How could 
he tell him yes, and yet he fell he must; he would not 
be faithful to his tmst if he withheld the knowledge, oj 
failed to point that dying one to the only so arc© lifa 


THE RETREAT. 


106 


Yes, Charlie,” he answered, moumfudy, I think you 
will Are you afraid to die ? Did your mother nevei 
tell you of the Saviour ?” 

** Yes, yes, oh yes I” and the little face lighted up as ai 
Ihe mention of a dear friend. “ I went to Sunday School 
ind learned of Jesus there. I’ve prayed to him everj 
night and every morning since I came from home. 1 
promised her I would, — mother, I mean, — and she prays, 
too. She said so in her letter, right here in my jacket 
pocket. Don’t you want to read it ?” 

The officer shook his head, and Charlie went on : 

“ I didn’t want to fight to-day, because I knew it was 
Sunday, but I had to, or run away. Will God punish 
me for that, think? WiU he turn me out of Heaven ?” 

No, no, oh no I” and the North Caroliuian’s tears 
dropped hke rain upon the troubled face, upturned so 
anxiously to his. “God will never punish those whn 
put their trust in Jesus.” 

“I do, I do, I do!” and the trembling voice grew 
fainter, adding, after a pause : “ You are a good man, I 
know. You have been to Sunday School, I guess, and 
you prayed this morning, didn’t you ?” 

The soldier answered, “ Yes,” and the child continued: 

“ You are dying, too, I ’most know, for there’s blood 
all over us. We’ll go together, won’t we, you and I? 
Will there be war in Heaven, between the North and 
South ?” 

“ No, Charlie. There is naught but peace m Heaven,** 
and again the white hands laved the feverish forehead, 
for the soldier would fain keep that little spirit tiU his 
could join it company, and speed away to the land where 
trouble is unknown. 

But it could not be, for Charhe’s hfe was ebbing away; 
Ihe last sand was dropping from the glass. Closei th« 

6 * 


106 


ROSE MATHER. 


fair early head nestled to its strange pillow, — the bleed* 
Ing bosom of a foe, — and the lips murmured incoherent 
ly of the elm-trees growing near the mountain home, and 
tl.€ mother watching daily for tidings of her boy. Then 
the train of thought was changed, and CharHe heard the 
bell just as it pealed that morning from his own village 
spirt;. How grand the music was echoing through the 
Virginia woods, and the blue eyes closed, as with a 
whisper he asked: ^ 

“Don’t you hear the old bell at home, calling the 
folks to church ? It has stopped now, and the children 
are singing before the organ, ‘ Glory to God on high.* 1 
used to sing it with them. Do you know it, ‘ Gloria in 
excelsis V 

“ Yes, yes !” the soldier eagerly replied, glad to find 
they were both of the same faith, — that little Yankee 
boy, born among the granite hills, and he a North Car- 
olinian, born on Southern soil. 

“ Then sing it,” Charlie whispered ; “ sing it, won’t 
you ? Maybe I’ll go to sleep. I don’t ache any now.” 

With a mighty effort the soldier forced down his bit- 
ter grief, and in a low, mournful tone, commenced our 
beautiful church chant, the dying child for whom he 
sang, faintly joining with him for a time, but the sweet 
voice ceased ere long, the curly head pressed heavier, the 
bleeding stumps lay motionless, and when the chant was 
ended, Charhe had gone to his last sleep. 

Carefully, reverently, the North Carolinian laid the 
little form upon the grass, and kissed the stiffened lipa 
for the sake of the mother, Tvho might never know jus^ 
bow Charlie died. 

Just then footsteps sounded near. Tom and Isaac 
were coming, and the face of the soldier darkened when 
he saw them, as if they had been intruders upon him and 


/ 


THE RETREAT. 


107 


hiB beautiful dead. Their appearance, lio'Wviver, di#»armed 
him at once, and with a faint smile he pointed to hia 
companion, and said : 

“He was in the Federal army two hourb ago; he hsli 
joined God’s army now. Poor Charlie! I vould ha-vo 
done much to save him !” and with his hand he smoothed 
the golden hair, on which the hecks of western sunshinr 
lay, 

Isaac knew it was a Rebel speaking to him, and for an 
instant he experienced the same sensation he hai felt in 
the midst of the fray, but only for an instant, for though 
he knew it was a sworn foe, he knew, too, that ’twa.s a 
noble-hearted man, and with a pitying glance at the 
dead, he asked if aught could be done for the living. 

“No,” and the soldier smiled again; “my passport u 
sealed; I am going after Charlie. Some one of your men 
did his work weU — see !” and opening his coat, he dis- 
closed the frightful wound from which the dark blood 
was gushing. 

Then, in a few words he had told them Charlie’s story, 
adding in conclusion, 

“You wiU escape; you wiU go home again: and if you 
do, write to Charhe’s mother, and teU her how he died. 
Tell her not to weep for him so early saved. Her lettei 
is in his pocket: take it as a guide where to direct your 
own.” 

This he said to Isaac, for he saw Tom was disabled. 
Isaac did as he was bidden, and the letter from Charhe’fc 
mother, written but a w eek before, was safely put away 
for future reference, and then Isaac did for the North 
Carolina soldier what the North Carolina soldier had done 
for the Yankee boy : he staunched the flowing blood as best 
he could, bathed the throbbing hea^l, and held the cool* 
ing water to the dry, parched bps, which feebly murmured 
iheix ihanka 


108 


BOSE MATHEE. 


The stranger saw the distinction there was betweex 
his new-found friends, and feeling that Tom was the om 
to whom he must appeal, he turned his glazed eyes apoii 
him, and said: 

“ Whose government will answer for all this, yours ci 
ihe one that I acknowledge ?” 

“Both, both I” Tom replied vehemently; and tha 
stranger rejoined: 

“Yes, both have much to answer for, — one for not 
yielding a little more, and the other for its rash impetu- 
osity. Oh, had we, as a people, know each other; could 
we have guessed what brave, kind hearts there were both 
North and South, we should never have come to this; 
but we believed our leaders too much; trusted too impli- 
citly in the dastardly falsehoods of a lying press; and it 
has brought us here. For myself I am willing to die in 
a good cause; and of course I think ours is just; exactly* 
as you think of yours; but who will care for my poor 
Nellie I left in my Southern home ? WTiat splendid vic- 
tory can repay her for th/ husband she will lose ere yon- 
der sun has set, or what can compensate my daughter 
Maude or my boy Charlie for theS* loss? 

The North Carolinian paused from exhaustion, and 
Tom essayed to comfort him. 

Bending over him, and supporting the drooping head 
which dropped lower and lower, the lips whispering ot 
Nelly, of Maud and Charlie, and of the Tar Biver wind- 
ing past their door, until there seemed no longer life in 
that once vigorous frame. 

“ He*s dead,” Isaac was about to say, but the words 
froze on his Hps, for in the distance he caught siglit oi 
two other men coming towards them,— one strong and 
powo'ful, the other slight and girhsh -looking. Tom saw 
them, too, and turning to Isaac, said hurriedly, 


T HFi RETREAT. 


m 


“Ron, my boy, and leave me. They will \hink far 
more of capturing an officer than a private. You can e»- 
cape as well as not, — run, quick.” 

But Isaac would share Capt. Carleton’s fate, whatever 
that might be, and with a deep flush on his boyish face, 
he drew nearer to his companion and stood gazing defi- 
antly at the Rebels as they came up. 

“We have nothing to hope,” Tom whispered, “but 
weR sell ourselves dearly as possible,” and bracing him- 
self against the tree, he prepared to do battle, refusing 
at once the bullying Rebel’s command, 

“ Surrender or die.” 

“Never!” was the firm response, and while Isaac en 
gaged hand to hand with the smaller of the two, Toni 
parried skillfully each thrust of his antagonist, who ac 
cused him of having murdered the North Carolina offi- 
cer lying near. 

Both Tom and Isaac had thouglit the stranger dead, 
but at this accusation the white lips quivered, and whis- 
pered faintly, “ No, no, they were kind to me, the officer 
and the boy.” 

For an instant the Rebel’s uplifted hand was stayed, 
and it is difficult to say what the result might have been 
had not another voice called through the leafy woods, 
“ No quarter to the Yankee !” 

Tom’s cheek blanched to an unnatural whiteness, as 
vvith partial bps and flashing eyes he watched the new 
comer hastening to the rescue, the handsome, grace fnJ 
■tranger, whose appearance riveted Isaac’s attention ai 
once, causing him to gaze spell-bound upon the face ol 
the advancing foe, as if it were one he had seen before. 
How handsome that young man was, with his saucy, 
laughing eyes of black, his soft, silken curls of hair, anc 
that air of self-assurance, which bespoke a daring, rock- 


no 


EOSB MATHER. 


less spirit. Isaac could not remove his eyes from tlit 
young Bebe^ and his late antagonist met with no resist- 
ance, as he passed his arms around him and held him 
prisoner at last. Isaac did not even think of himself j 
his thoughts were aU upon the stranger, at whom poor 
Tom sat gazing, half bewildered, and trying once to 
stretch his arms toward him, while the lips essayed to 
speak. But the words he would have uttered died away 
as a sudden faintness stole over him, when he saw that 
he was recognized. There was a violent start, — a fading 
out of the bright color on the Bebel’s cheek, and Isaac, 
stni watching him, heard him exclaim, “ No, no, not him, 
leave him alone,” while at the same time he attempted 
to free Tom from the firm grasp the enemy now had 
upon him. 

With an oath the soldier shook him ojff, then rudely 
Dade his half-senseless victim rise and follow as a pris- 
oner of war. And Tom, unmindful of the pain, arose 
without a word, and leaning heavily upon his captor, 
hobbled on, caring little now, it would seem, what fate 
was in reserve for him. He seemed benumbed, and only 
an occasional groan, which Isaac fancied was wrung out 
by pain, told that he was conscious of anything. 

“ He"s lame,” Isaac cried, the hot tears raining over 
his face, while he begged of them to stop, or at least to 
carry poor Capt. Carleton, if they must go on. ** I won*t 
run away,” he said, imploringly to his own captor, feel- 
ing intuitively that his was the kinder nature. “ Don’t 
be afraid of me. I’ll help you carry him if necossory. 
Do have some pity. He’s fainting, see!” i.nd Isaac al- 
most shrieked as poor Tom sunk upon the grass, utterly 
unable to move another step. They must caiTy liim now 
or leave him there, and anxious for the honor a captured 
jfficer of Tom Carleton’s evident rank in life would con- 


THE RETREAT. 


Ill 


fer upon them, the Kebels availed themselves of Isaac’i 
proffered aid, and the three, bearing their heavy burden, 
moved slo’wly on until far beyond the bushes by the 
itream, where the other soldier sat upon the ground, hii 
laughing black eyes heavy with tears, and his heart 
throbbing with a keener pain than he had ever known be- 
fore. 

“ I was wrong to let him go,” he said aloud. “ Three 
against two would surely have carried the day, and that 
boy at his side was brave, I know. But it cannot now be 
helped. He is their prisoner, and all that remains for 
me to do is to see that the best of treatment comes to him 
until he is released. But what I are the dead coming 
back to life ?” and the soldier started up as he caught a 
sound of bending twigs near* by. 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE. 


ILL BAKER was awake at last, and from his hid- 


ing place had seen Capt. Carleton and Isaac dis- 
appear beneath the trees in the distance. 

“They are goners,” he muttered to himself, “Won’t 
^hat snap dragon of a widow be mad, though, when she 
tiears how they’ve got Ike. Poor Ike, I’d help him if I 
souli, but ’taint no use interferin’ now,” and with thii 
reflection. Bill turned his attention toward the stranger, 
watching him for several minutes, first to decide hi* 
politics, and second, to calculate his probable strength. 
The soldier was at least a head taller than Bill, who new 


112 


ROSE MATHER. 


ertheless far exceeded him in strength of muscle and pow 
er of endurance. 

“ I can manage him/’ was Bill’s contemptuous comment 
and feeling in his pocket for the strong cord Rose Mathei 
had bound round his paper parcel of turnovers and 
cheese, he prepared to spring upon his foe in the rear 
and take him by surprise. 

The cracking twigs betrayed him, and changing hia 
tactics he walked directly in front of the astonished young 
man, who, with heightened color, haughtily demanded 

what he was doing there, — and whether he were a friend 
or foe.” 

“ What am I doin’ here ?” Bill repeated, sticking hia 
cap a httle more to one side, and half shutting one of hia 
wicked grey eyes, ‘ ‘ Kinder peekin’ round to «ee what I 
can find. Be I friend or foe ? You must be green to ask 
that. Don’t you re-cog-nize my regimeniols, made after 
the cut of Uncle Sam, sited some, to be sui’e, but then 
I’ve been at a dirty job, — ^been lickin’ jest pi^ch scamps as 
you. Now, then, corporal, seein’ I answered you civil, 
what are you doin’ here ? You won’t answer me, hey ?” 
he continued, as the stranger deigned him no other reply 
than a look of ineffable disdain. “ Wall, then, if you’re 
so ’fraid of your tongue, s’posin’ we try a rastle, rough 
and tumble, you know ; and the one that gits beat ia 
t’other ’s prisoner. That’s fair, as these dead folks will 
witness;” and Bill’s glance for the first time feU upon the 
»odies lying near them, — upon Charhe’s childish face, 
with the golden curls clustering around it. 

The sight touched a tender chord in Bill, and forget- 
ting for a moment his new acquaintance, he bent ovei 
the drummer boy, murmuring, 

“ Poor child, ycur folks or’to have been ashamed to lei 
you come to war.” 


THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE. 


113 


Now was tlie Rebel’s time. He felt intuitively that h« 
was no match for the thick-set, brawny Bill. Safety lay 
alone in flight, and with a sudden bound he fled like a 

deer. 

Nuff said,” dropped from Bill’s lips, and the next in 
stant he, too, was flying through the woods in pursuit oi 
the foe. 

It proved an unequal race, and Bill’s strong arms ere 
long closed like a vice around the stmggling soldier, who 
resisted manfully, until resistance was vain, and then 
sullenly stood still, while Bill fastened his hands behind 
him, with the cords unwittingly furnished by Rose Ma- 
ther 1 

“ Don’t squirm so, coi'poral,” Bill said, as he bound the 
knots securely, with his knee upon the back of the stran- 
ger, whom he had thrown upon his face. “Don’t squirm 
80 like an eel and I’ll be done the quicker. I calkerlate 
to tie you so you can’t git away, and you may as well 
hold on. Got kinder delicate hands, haint you ? Never 
done nothin’, I guess, but hck niggers and shute your 
betters. There, you may stan’ up now if you want tew.” 

The young man struggled to his feet, saying, proudly : 

“ What do you intend doing next, sir ?” 

“ What do I intend doin’ ?” BiU replied, with imper- 
turbable gravity. “ I intend leadin’ you by this string 
inter camp, and showin’ you up for to’pence a sight. 
What d’ye s’pose I intended doin’ ?” 

The young man made one more desperate stniggle to 
free himself, but the twine only cut into his flesh, making 
kke matter worse, so he finally submitted to his fate, and 
sufiered Bill to take him where he listed. Bill was in no 
hurry to get to camp. He rather enjoyed being alone 
with his prisoner, and leading him to a little thicket he 
made him sit down, and placing one of his feet upon him 
be began to ask him innumerable questions. — what wae 


BOSE MATHER 


lU 

his name, where did he come from, what company was hi 
in, and so on, to none of which did the stranger vouch- 
safe a reply. 

With a haughty look upon his handsome face, he 
cj.amtained a rigid silence, while Bill continued : 

“Needn’t talk unless you want to. Speech is free with 
as, you know; but seein’ you won’t tell who you be, 
maybe you wouldn’t mind hearing my geneology. It’ll 
make you feel better, mabby, to know my reputation and 
jtandin’ in society. Corporal, did you ever hear of a 
Yankee, a real Hve mudsill Yankee, such as Southern 
gentlemen feel above fightin’ with ? Wall, I’m that crit- 
ter. What do you think of me, take me as a hull ?” 

The stranger groaned in disgust, and Bill continued : 

“Them cords hurt you, I guess. Like enough I’ll 
ease ’em up a trifle, if you say so. I ain’t hard-hearted, if 
I be rough as a nutmeg-grater. Shall I loosen ’em so’s 
not to hurt them soft, baby hands of yourn ?” 

“ Thank you, sir. I don’t mind it in the least,” was 
the soldier’s answer, though all the while the coarse 
twine was cutting cruelly into the tender flesh. 

This Bin suspected, and muttering to himself: 

“ Good grit, if he is a Rebel,” he went on: “ Consider- 
able top-lofty, ain’t you, corporal? And as chaps of 
your cloth like to meet with their equals. I’ll go on with 
my history. I was bom in Massachusetts, not over a 
day’s ride from Boston. Ever been to Boston ?” 

No answer from the stranger, save a heightened color, 
Mid Bill proceeded: 

“ Tall old town. Got a smashin’ monument out to 
Charlestown. Heard on’t I s’pose, as I take it some of 
you Southern dogs can read. Wall, father died in State's 
Prison down there to Charlestown, and thou we moved 
to Rockland, the old woman, Hal and me. Hal’s lyin’ 
up there where the hottest cf the fight took place, and 


THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE. 116 

Fm here tormentin’ you by tellin* you my charactei 
Fve been to the work-house t^vice, — I have, I swan, — onc< 
for gettin’ drunk, and once for somethin’ else a good deal 
wus. How do you feel now ?” and Bill leered wickedly 
at the young man, who seemed bent on keeping silence. 

Only the expression of his face told the extreme con 
tempt he felt for his companion, and how it did wound 
to the quick one of his nature to be held a prisoner by 
such as William Baker. But there was no help for it ; 
he must submit to be taken to Washington by the 
despised Bill, and then, — oh, how his heart sank within 
him as he thought, what then ? Was there no method 
of escape ? Couldn’t he get away, or better yet, couldn’t 
he hire Bill to let him go ? Strange he had not thought 
of this before. Yankees were proverbially avaricious, 
and almost every man had his price. He could try, at 
all events, and unbending his dignity, he inquired what 
Bill would ask to let him go ? 

“What’ll I ask?” repeated Bill, placing both feet 
instead of one upon his prisoner. “ I dun know. Le’ss 
dicker a spell and see. What’U you give, and where 
do you keep your ti-aps?” 

“ In my pockets,” the unsuspecting soldier answered ; 
“ there’s my watch and chain, worth over three hundred 
doUars.” 

“ Whew-ew I” whistled BiU, his face lighting up in- 
stantly, while hope crept into the stranger’s heart. “ A 
gold watch worth over three hundred I Let’s see the 
critter.” 

“You forget that my hands are tied,” the strangef 
luggested. 

“ So they be, but mine ain’t,” and the next moment 
Bill was holding to his ear an elegant Parisian watch, 
ind asking if the stranger were positive sure it cost 
more’n three hundred dollars. “I had an old pewtei 


116 


ROSE MATHER. 


filing that I gin to mother,” he said, and this concern jesi 
comes in play. It’s mine, you say, if I’ll let you cut 
stick and run ?” 

“Yes, sir; I give you that in exchange for my liberty/ 

“Wall, no'w, kind a generous, ain’t you? But I '^ant 
you should fling in something to clinch the bargain. A 
chap of your cloth is of more valley than three bundled. 
What else have you got, coi-poral ?” and laying the watch 
carefully upon the grass. Bill’s hand a second time sought 
the stranger’s pocket, bringing out an expensive and 
exquisitely wrought quizzing -glass. 

“WaU, now, if these ain’t the curisest spetaclesi” he 
exclaimed. “ I’ll jest see how a Keb looks through ’em,’ 
and adjusting them to his eyes. Bill walked demurely 
around his prisoner, and then standing at a little dis- 
tance inspected him minutely, as if he had been some 
curious monster. “ Hanged if I can see in ’em, but 
mabby they’U suit the old woman to hum,” he said, 
placing the glass beside the watch, and adding: “ Watch 
and spetacles ain’t enough, corporal. What more have 
you got? Ain’t there a ring on one of your hands ?” 

“ Yes, a costly diamond,” was the faint response, and 
Bill ere long was trying in vain to push it over bia 
large joints. 

“ It don’t fit me, but I guess ’twill my gal, when I git 
one,” he said, laying that, too, with the watch and eye- 
glass. 

A silver tobacco-box and handsome cigar-case followed 
next, the stranger groaning mentally, as a faint suspicicr; 
of Bid’s real intentions crossed his mind. There re- 
mained now but one more article, the dearest of aU the 
young Bebel possessed, and the perspiration started from 
©very pore as he felt the rough hand again within hif 
pockets, and knew ho could not prevent it 


THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE. 117 

** Oh, no, no, no, not that ! Spare me that. Do not 
open it, please!” and the haughty tone was changed to 
one of earnest supplication, as Bill drew forth a small 
daguen ean case, and placed his dirty thumb upon the 
ipring. 

Something in the stranger’s voice made him pause a 
moment, but anything like delicacy of feeling was un- 
known to the rough Bill, and the next instant he was 
feasting his rude gaze upon the features which the Rebel 
youth had guarded almost religiously, even from his 
equals in camp. How beautiful that girlish face was, 
with its bright laughing eyes, and soft chestnut curls 
falling in such profusion around the childish brow, and 
upon the smooth, white neck. Even Bill was awed into 
silence, while a feeling of bewilderment crept over him 
as if he had seen that face before, and mingled with this 
feeling came remembrances of that last day at home, 
when fair hands, which, ere he was a soldier, would have 
scorned to touch such as he, had w’aved him an adieu. 

“Whew-ew!” he whistled, at last. “Ain’t she pretty, 
though ? Your sweet-heart, I guess,” and he leered at 
the stranger, who made him no reply; only the bps 
quivered, and in the dark eyes there was a gathering 
moisture; but when Bill asked, “May I have this, too, if 
I’ll let you go?” the stranger answered, promptly: 

“Never! I’ll die a thousand deaths before I’U part 
with that! Liberty is not worth that price. Give me 
back the picture, and I’U go with you willingly where- 
jver 3^011 please. Do give it back,” he added, in an 
ftgony of fear, as BUI continued gazing at it, and making 
ri 3 remarks. 

“ Can’t a feUer look at a gal on glass if he wants to ? 1 
wouldn’t hurt the little criiter if I could as weU as not 


118 


ROSE MATHER. 


So you won't give her to me, nor tell me who 'ti** 
neither?” 

“ Stranger,” said the Eebel, have you any feelings ol 
refinement ?” 

“ Nary feelin’,” and Bill shook his head, but did not 
withdraw his eyes from the picture. 

“ Well, then, have you a wife ?” 

“ Nary wife. Nobody would have Bill Baker.” 

“ Nor sister ?” 

** Nary sister but a dead one that I never seen.” 

“ Nor mother ? You surely have a mother,” and tha 
soldier’s voice shook with strong emotion. 

“ You’ve got me there,” and Bill’s eyes turned upon 
his prisoner. “ I have a mother, and you ought to hear 
the old gal take on when she comes home from washin’ 
from Miss Martherses or some of the big bugs and finds 
Hal dead drunk on the trundle-bed, and me not a great 
sight better. Handsome old gal, — one of the kind that 
don’t wear hoops, but every time she steps takes hei 
gownd up on her heels, you know.” 

The Bebel groaned aloud. There was no tender point 
upon which his captor could be touched, and the tears 
rained over his handsome face as he begged of Bill to 
give him at least the ambrotype. 

“ It’s the only thing which has prevented me from be- 
ing a perfect villain,” he said. *‘It has kept me from 
the wine cup, and from the gambler’s den.” 

“ Pity it hadn’t kept you out of the Southern army,"* 
was Bill’s dry response, and the stranger answered, 
eagerly: 

“I wish it had, I wish it had! Please give it back, 
and I’ll swear allegiance to the veriest minion in Lin-* 
eoln’s train.” 

“ I never thought no great of a turncoat,” Bill replied, 


THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE. 


119 


dosing the case, and still holding it in his hand. *11 
you’re a Southern dog, stay so, not go to barkin’ on both 
sides. We don’t want no traitors. Honest, though, 
corporal, where was you bom ? There’s a kind of nato- 
•al look in your face, as if I’d seen it afore,” and Bill laid 
he ambrotype upon the grass. 

But with regard to his birth-place, the stranger was 
non-committal; and Bill continued : 

** If I let you go, you’ll give me the watch ?” 

“Willingly, willingly.” 

“And the spetacles ?” 

“ Yes, oh yes.” 

“ And the glass bead ring ?” 

** Yes, everything but the picture.” 

“ Don’t be so fast,” Bill rejoined. “ I’ll get to that 
bimeby. Watch, spetacles, glass bead ring, tobarker- 
box, and this other thingumbob, but not the picter, if I’ll 
let you go ? And you’ll go with me to Washington, and 
be showed up like a caravan if I’ll give up the picter ? 
Them’s the terms as I understand.” 

** Yes,” the stranger gasped, a shadow of hope stealing 
into his heart. 

Alas, how soon it was erased by Bill’s continuing : 

“ Yankees ain’t generally very green. We can make 
you Southern bloods buy wooden cowcumber-seeds any 
time of day, and do you s’pose I’m goin’ to let you off 
at any price ? No sin I If you go to war, you must take 
the chances of war. I ain’t a-goin’ to hurt you, and 
I’ll ease up them strings if you say so, but, corporal, 
you’re my prisoner; and these traps,” laying his hand 
upon the various articles upon the grass, “ these traps, 
picter and all, I con-fis-cate as con-t? a-band ' How do 
you feel now ?” and Bill coolly pocketed his contrabands 
all save the watch, which he adjusted about his necJL 


120 


ROSE MATHER. 


There was a fierce storm of tears, and sobs, and wild 
entreaties, and then the poor discouraged soldier waa ^ 
still, his white face wearing again its look of cold, 
haughty reserve, and his whole manner indicative of ths 
aversion he felt for the vulgar Bill, upon whom the feel- 
ing was entirely lost, for though Bill knew the proud 
Southerner felt above him, he could not appreciate the 
feelings which made the young man shrink from him as 
from a loathsome reptile. Bill had no intention of treat* 
ing h'm cruelly, and as by this time the night shadows 
were creeping into the woods, he sought out a dryer and 
more sheltered sj)ot, and bade his prisoner sleep while 
he sat by and watched. It seemed preposterous that 
the stranger should sleep under so great excitement, but 
human nature could endure no longer without rest, and 
when at last the stars came out, they shone down upon 
that tired soldier, sleeping upon the grass, with Bill sit- 
ting near, and watching as he slept. There were visions 
of home, and of the battle, too, it would seem, mingled 
in the young man’s dreams, for he talked sometimes 
with his mother, asking her to forgive her boy, and take 
him back again to her love ; then he was pleading for 
another, a captive it would seem, asking that nought 
but the best of care should come to the wounded officer, 
and then the picture flitted across his mind, for he held 
converse with the original, and Bill, listening to him, 
muttered: 

“’Twas his gal, or sister, sure; I’m sorry for him, 1 
vum, but hanged if I'll give it up. It’s contraband accor* 
ling to war. He needn’t of jined the army.” 

And so the weary night wore on, the deep stillness oi 
the Virginia woods broken occasionally by the shouts of 
riders as they passed by, in search of it’hatever there 
was to find. Once, as the shouts came near, the soldier 


NEWS OF THE BAITLK 


121 


started up, but ere the scream for help had passed hii 
lips, Bill’s hand was laid firmly upon them, and Bill him- 
mdf whispered fiercely. 

“ One yelp, and I gag you with the handkerchief the 
old woman took from her pocket and gin me the momin* 
I come from home. She takes snuff, too, the old woman 
does I” 

There was a gesture ot disgust, and then the stranger 
became quiet again, while the shouts died away in the 
distance and were not heard again that night. The 
morning broke at last, and just as it was growing Hght, 
Bill, aroused by the falling rain from the slumber into 
which he had inadvertently fallen, awoke his prisoner, 
and led him safely through the pickets of the enemy 
without encountering a human being. They were a 
strange looking couple, and when, on the following day, 
they reached Washington, they attracted far more atten- 
tion than the prisoner desired, for he shrunk nervously 
from the curious gaze fixed upon him, refusing to answer 
all questions as to his name or birthplace, and appear- 
ing glad when at last he was relieved from Bill’s surveil 
lance and led to his prison home. 


CHAPTER X 

NEWS OF THE BATTLE AT ROCKLAND. 

» iEAT Battle at Manassas 1 

Total Rout of the Federal Army I 
3,000 killed and as many more taken prisoner! 
Fire Zouaves all cut to pieces I 
6 


122 


ROSE MATHER. 


Only three or four escape ali've I 
N. Y. 13th completely riddled 1 1 1 
Sherman’s Battery, and hosts of guns in the handf pi 
the Rebels I 

Frightful Panic at Washington 1 
The Capitol in imminent danger ! 

Gen. Scott in convulsions, the President crazy, 
Seward threatened with softening of the brain I 
Women and children fleeing for their lives I 
Beauregard marching on with 500,000 men I 
The Baltimoreans in ecstasies, and the Philadelphians 
in despair! 

Such were some of the exaggerated reports which ran 
like lightning through the streets of Rockland on the 
first arrival of the news, throwing the people into a 
greater panic than was said to exist in Washington. 
Hints of some terrible disaster, the exact nature of which 
could not be known until the arrival of the evening pa- 
pers, had early in the afternoon found their way from 
the telegraphic station into the village, creating the most 
intense excitement. Men left their places of business to 
talk the matter over, while groups of women assembled 
at the street comers, discussing the probabilities of th« 
case, and each hoping that her child, her husband, her 
brother had been spared. 

Prominent among these was Widow Simms, holding 
fast to Susan’s hand, and occasionally whispering a word 
of comfort to the poor child, whose eyes were red with 
weeping over the possible fate of John. Rose Mather’g 
tsarriage drove up and down, and from its window Rose 
herself looked anxiously out, her face indicative of the 
anxiety she felt to hear the worst, if worst there were. 
She knew her husband could not have been in battle, foi 
he was still in Washington, but she was conscious of a feeh 


NEWS OF THE BATTLE. 


1 

*ng as if some dire calamity were impending over 1 er, 
and among the crowd collected in the street there ''yas 
none who waited more impatiently for the coming of the 
evening train than she. She had taken Annie Graham 
to ride with her, and the two presented a most striking 
tontrast, for where Kose was nervous, impatient and ex • 
cited, Annie, though feeling none the less concerned, was 
quiet, submissive and resigned, exhibiting no outward 
emotion until the shrill whistle was heard across the 
plain, when a crimson flush stole into her cheek, deepen- 
ing into a purple as the carriage drew up in front of the 
oflice, where the throng was growing denser, — men push- 
ing past each other, and elbowing their way to a stand- 
point near the door, where they could catch the first item 
of news, and scatter it among the eager crowd. The 
papers came at last, and the damp sheets were almost 
torn asunder by the excited multitude. 

“ Me one, — me, please,” and Rose Mather’s hand was 
thrust from the window in time to catch a paper destined 
for some one farther in the rear, but ere she had found 
the column sought, she heard from those around her 
that the worst was realized. 

There had been a battle. Our troops were utterly de- 
feated, and worse than all, disgraced. 

“ But the 13th ?” Annie whispered faintly. “ Does it 
iq)eak of the 13th ?” 

Rose did not know. Her interest just then was cen- 
tered in the “ Massachusetts ,” and in her eagerness tc 

hear from Tom, she forgot for a moment that such a 
regiment as the N. T. 13th existed. But there were 
others who did not forget, and just as the question left 
Annie’s bps, the answer came in the despairhig C 17 which 
rent the air as some reckless person shouted aloud. 


124 


ROSE MATHER. 


** The 13th a total wreck I Not a man left of Company 
R” 

** Oh, George,” poor Annie cried, and the next moment 
Rose held the fainting form upon her lap. 

** Drive home, — to Airs. Graham’s I mean,” she said to 
Fake, who with some difficulty made his way through 
the crowd, but not until the story so cruelly set afloat 
was contradicted by those who had more coolly read the 
sad intelligence. 

The news was bad enough, but the Rockland com- 
pany was not mentioned, and its friends had no alterna- 
tive but to wait until the telegraph wires should bring 
some tidings of the saved. Rose was the first to be re- 
membered. Will did his duty faithfully. 

“ A terrible battle,” his message ran. “ Soldiers are 
arriving every hour, but Tom has not come yet.” 

A telegram for the Widow Simms came next, the 
mother’s quick eye taking in at a glance that only Eli’s 
name and John’s were appended to it. Isaac’s was not 
there. Where was he then, oh where ? She asked this 
question frantically, refusing to read the note lest it 
should confirm her fears. 

“ I’ll read it, mother. Let me see,” Susan said, wrest- 
ing the paper from her hands, and reading with trem- 
bling tones, 

**Eli and I are safe. Isaao was last seen leading Lieut. Graham 
firom the field.” 

Oh what a piteous wail went up to Heaven then, for 
Widow Simms, when she received the news, was sitting 
n Annie’s door, and Annie was kneeling at her side. 
Georgs was wounded, of course, and if wounded, dead, 
else why had he not thought of her ere this ? Locked 


NEWS OF THE BATTLE 


126 


in each other’s arms the two stricken women wept bih 
terly, the mother sobbing amid her tears, “Mj boy, 
boy,” while Annie moaned sadly, “ Mv George, my bus 
band.” 

Well was it for both that ere that dark hour came thej 
had learned to follow on, even when their Father’s foot^ 
Bteps were in the sea, knowing the hand which guided 
would never lead them wrong. Annie was the tot to 
rally. 

“ It might not after all be so bad,” she said. " George 
and Isaac were prisoners, perhaps, but even that was 
preferable to death. It would surely save them from 
danger in future battles. The Southerners would no* 
maltreat helpless captives. There were kind people 
South as weU as North.” 

Thus Annie reasoned, and the widow felt herself grow 
stronger as hope whispered of a brighter day to-mor- 
row. 

To Annie it was brighter, for it brought her news of 
George, wounded in his right arm, an inmate of the hos- 
pital, and at present too weak to write. This was all, 
but it comforted the young wife. He was not dead. He 
might come home again, and Annie’s heart overflowed 
with grateful thanksgiving that while so many were be- 
reaved of their loved ones she had been mercifully spared. 
The next mail brought her a second letter from Mr. Ma- 
ther, more minute in its particulars than any which had 
preceded it. He had obtained permission to stay with 
George, had removed him to a private boarding-house, 
far more comfortable than the crowded hospital; and, at 
his request he wrote to Annie that her husband, though 
badly wounded and suffering much from the terrible ex- 
citement of the battle, was not thought dangerous, and 
had strong hopes of ere long receiving his discharge 


L26 


ROSE MATRER. 


and returning Lome where she could nurse him bock i4 
Ufe. 

This w^as Annie’s message, read by her eagerly, while 
Widow Simms, forgetting all formality in her anxietj 
'aj hear if there w^as aught concerning her boy, lOoked 
jrej her shoulder, her eye darting from line to line unti! 
flhe caught his name. There was something of him, an^ 
grasping Annie’s arm. she whispered, 

** Read what it says of Isaac.” 

And Annie read how brave Tom Carleton had gener- 
ously given place to the poor wounded George, and staid 
behind him with Isaac, hoping to make his way to Wash - 
ington in safety. They had not been heard from since, 
and the widow’s heart was sick as heart could be with the 
dread uncertainty. Anything was preferable to this sus- 
pense, and in a state of mind bordering upon distraction 
she walked the floor, now w?inging her hands and again 
declaring her intention to start at once for somewhere, 
she knew not whither, or cared, provided she found her 
child. 

In the midst of her excitement the gate swung open, 
and Mrs. Baker rushed up the walk, her sleeves above 
her elbows, and her hair pushed back from her bonnet- 
less head, just as she had left her washing at a neighbor’s 
when she received BiWs letter ^ which told of Hal’s sad 
fate, and unravelled the mystery of Tom Carleton’s 
silence. 

“ He’s took ! The Rebels have got your Ike !” she 
lihrieked, brandishing aloft the soiled missive, and howl- 
ing dismally. Then, putting her hand into her bosom, 
she drew forth the lock of hair, and thrusting it almost in 
to the widow’s face, cried out, “ Look, ’tis Harry’s hair, 
all there is left of Harry. That’s what I git for havin’ a 
boy two inches taller than Ike, who stood in frort, and 


NCTS OF THE BATTLE. 


127 


would of been shot instead of Harry, only he was shorter 
Read it, Miss Graham,” and tossing the letter irto An 
nie's lap, the wretched woman sank upon the doer-step, 
and covering her face with her wet apron, rocked ba^ 
and forth, while Annie read aloud as follows. 

“ Washington, Jviy 24<7i, 1861. 

“ Dbab Mother: We’ve met the rascals, and been as genteelly 
licked as ever a pack of fools could ask to be. How it happened no* 
body knows. I was fitin’ like a tiger, when all on a sudden I found 
us a-runnin’ like a flock of sheep; and what is the queerest of all, is 
that while we were takin’ to our heels one way the Rebels were go- 
in' it t’other, and for what I know, we should of been runnin’ from 
each other till now if they hadn’t found out the game, and so turned 
upon us. 

“Butwustof all is to come. HoZ is dead, — shot right through 
the forehead , and the ball that struck him down took off Ike Simmses 
cap, so if Ike had been only a little taller, Hal would of lived to been 
hung most likely.” 

“ Oh, I wish he had, I wish he had !” poor Mra 
Baker moaned, still waving back and forth and kissing 
the lock of hair, while the widow involuntarily thanked 
her Heavenly Father that the two inches she once so 
earnestly coveted for her boy had wisely been with- 
held. 

Then followed Bill’s account of cutting away the haii 
he inclosed, of his flight into the woods, his sleep by thd 
brook, and his waking just in time to see Capt. Carleton 
and Isaac Simms disappear beneath the trees, in charge 
of rebel soldiers. 

Now that she knew the worst the widow sat like one 
stunned by a heavy blow, uttering no sound, as Annie 
read Bill’s account of capturing his prisoner. Ere she 
reached this poink however, she had another auditor, 
Rose Mather, who had come with a second letter from 
her husbemd, and who, passing the weeping womar in the 


128 


ROSE MATHER. 


;ioor, came and stood bj Annie, and listened with strsng'* 
interest to the story of that captive parting so willingljf 
\nith everything save the picture. 

Poor young man I'* she sighed, when Annie finished 
'^jading. ‘‘ I don’t suppose it’s right, but I do feel sorr^ 
jfr him. What if it had been Jimmie ? Perhaps he hM 
a sister somewhere weeping for him just as I cried foi 
lorn. Dear Tom, Will writes he is a prisoner with Isaac 
Simms. I’m glad they are together. Tom will take care 
of Isaac. He had a quantity of gold tied around his 
waist,” and Rose’s soft hand smoothed caressingly the 
widow’s thin, light hair. 

The widow had not wept before, but at the touch ol 
those little fingers the flood gates opened wide, and hei 
tears fell in torrents. They were bound together now b} 
a common bond of sympathy, those four women, each so 
unlike to the other, and for a time they wept in silence, 
one for her wounded husband, one for a child deceased, 
one for a captured brother, the other for a son. 

Now, as ever, Annie was the first to speak of hope, and 
her words were fraught with comfort to all save Harry’s 
mother. She could not comfort her, for from reckless, 
misguided Harry’s grave, there came no ray of consola- 
tion, but to the others she spoke of One who would not 
desert the weary captives. Neither bolt nor bar could 
■hut Him out. God was in Richmond as well as there at 
home, and none could teU what good might spring from 
this seeming great evil. For a long time they talked to- 
gether, and the afternoon was half spent when at last they 
separated. Rose going back to her luxurious home where 
she wrote to her mother the sad news concerning Tom, 
blurring with great tears the line in which she spoke ol 
Jimmie, wondering what his fate had been. 

Slowly, disconsolately poor Mrs. Baker returned to hei 


NEWS OF THE BATTLE. 


da/s work so long neglected, but the suds she left so hot 
two hours before had grown cold, the fire burned out 
and w’ith that weary, discouraged feeling which poverty 
alone can prompt, she was setting herself to the task o' 
bringing matters up again, when her employer, touchcvl 
^iih the sight of the white, anguished face, kindly bad a 
hci leave the work until another day, and seek the quiet 
(She so much needed. Poor old woman ! How desolate 
it was going back to the squalid house where everything, 
even to the bootjack he had once hurled at her head, re- 
minded her of the Harry who would come back no more I 
She did not think of his unkindness now. That was aU 
forgotten, and motherlike, she remembered only the times 
when he was good and treated her hke something hall 
way human. He was her boy, — her first born, and as she 
lay with her tear-stained face bui-ied in the scanty pil- 
Idws of her humble bed, she recalled to mind the time 
when first he lisped the sweet word mother, and twined 
his baby arms about her neck. 

He was a bright, pretty child, easily influenced for good 
or evil, and the rude mother shuddered as she felt creeping 
over her the conviction that she had helped to make him 
what he grew to be, laughing at his fierce temper and at 
times provoking him on purpose, just to see him bump 
his Httle round, hard head against the oaken floor 
I’hen, as he grew older, it was fun to hear him imitate the 
oaths his father used, and she had laughed at that until 
the habit became so firmly fixed that neither threats nor 
punishment could break it. And when the Sabbath bells 
were pealing forth their summons to the house of prajer, 
she had suffered him to stay away, offering but slight re- 
monstrance when the robin’s nest just without the dooi 
was pilfered of its unfledged occupants, the mother -bird 
moaning ever its murdered young, just as she was moan 
6 * 


180 


BOSE MATHEB. 


Ing now over her ruined boy. Poor Harry I There wai 
Bome excuse for him, some apology found iu tne nature 
of his early training, but for her who reared him. — ^none. 
She might have taught him better. She might have sent 
him to the Sunday school across the way, where Sundaj 
After Sunday she had heard the hymns the children sang 
f welling on the Sabbath air, Harry sometimes joining in as 
he sat in the cottage door, adjusting the bait with which to 
tempt the unsuspecting fish playing in the brook nearby. 
A mother’s fearful responsibility had been hers. She had 
not fulfilled it, and it rolled 1 ack upon her now, stinging 
as only remorse can sting, and making her wish amid her 
pain that the boy, once so earnestly desired, had never 
been given her, or else had died in its cradle bed, and sc 
gone where she knew the hardened in sin never could find 
entrance. 

So absorbed was she in her grief as not to hear the 
sound of wheels stopping near her gate, nor the tripping 
footstep upon the floor. Kose Mather, restless at home 
and wishing for something to do, had remembered the 
miserable woman, and knowing how desolate her com- 
fortless house must seem that summer night, she had 
conquered her aversion to the place and come to speak, 
if possible, a word of cheer. Mrs. Baker’s howls always 
had the effect of making her laugh, they seemed so 
forced, so unnatural; but there was something so new, so 
real in the stilLness of that figure crouching upon the bed, 
that Eose for a moment was uncertain how to act. It 
n^as no feigned sorrow of which she was a witness now, 
and advancing at last towards the untidy bed, she laid 
her hand upon the disordered, uncombed hair, and whis- 
pered soothingly, “I am so sorry for you, Mrs. Bak^r, 
and I’ll do all I can to help you. I’ll give you money to 
make your cottage pleasanter, and by and by you won't 
teei so badly, maybe.” 


NEWS FROM THE WAR. 


i31 


This was Rose s idea of comfort. Money, in her esti* 
Illation^ was to the poor a panacea for neai'ly every evil 
but all her wealth could not avail to quiet the feehng oi 
remorse from which IVIrs. Baker was suffering. With a sot 
die thanked the kind-hearted Rose, and then continued, 
“’I'ain’t the poverty so much, nor the knowin’ that 
be*s dead, though that is bad enough. It’s the something 
that tells me I or’to have brung him up better. I never 
sent him to meetin’, never went myself, never had him 
baptized, though I did try once to learn him ‘ Now I lay 
me — * but he, that’s my man, laughed me out of it. He 
said there wasn’t any God, that we all come by chance, 
but I knew better. I had a prayin’ mother, and though 
... forgot what she learnt me, it ’pears to come back to me 
now. Oh, Harry, I wish I’d done different, I do, I do,” 
and the repentant woman buried her face again in the 
scanty pillows, while Rose looked pityingly on. 

Here was a case she could not reach. Money would 
not cure that aching heart, or quiet that guilty con- 
science. “Mrs. Graham would know exactly what to 
say,” Rose thought, wisliing more and more that she, too, 
possessed the wisdom which would have told her what it 
was poor Mrs. Baker needed. Sitting down beside her, 
Rose talked to her of Bill, who, her husband said, was 
highly comphmented for having captured a rebel Will 
had not seen the prisoner, she said, or heard his name ; he 
only knew the fact, and that Bhl was greatly praised. This 
was some consolation to Mrs. Baker, but it did not take 
the pain away, and as she was not inclined to converse. 
Rose soon bade her good bye and left her there alone in 
her deep sorrow. 

The following Sunday, just as the notes of the organ 
were dying away in the opening service, a bent, shrink- 
ing figure stole noiselessly in at the open door, and Ros4 


182 


ROSE MATHER. 


Mather recognized beneath the thin blacE veii, the iiag 
gard face of Widow Baker, who, except on funeral occa* 
tdons, had never before been seen within the walls of the 
church. Annie saw her, too, and while Bose, touched 
with the humble attempt she had made to put on some- 
thing like mourning for her child, thought how sht 
would give her an entire new suit of black, Annie thought 
how she would daily pray that the blow which had fallen 
so crushingly might result in everlasting good to the now 
stricken mother. 

Scarcely less keen, but of a far different nature, was the 
grief of Widow Simms. There was no black upon her 
leghorn bonnet. She would not have worn it if Isaac had 
been dead, but every expression of her stern face told 
how constantly her heart was going out after her dar- 
ling boy, her captured Isaac languishing in his sultry 
prison, sick perhaps, and pining for his mother. How 
savage she felt toward Beauregard and all his clan, re- 
solving at times to start herself for Bichmond, and beard 
the lion in his den. 

“ She’d tell them what was what,” she said. “ She’d 
let them know what an injured mother could do. She’d 
turn a second Charlotte Corduroy, if necessary, and free 
the land from such vhe monsters,” and she actually 
sharpened up her shears as a weapon of offence in case 
the pilgrimage were made 1 

This was the Widow Simms excited, but the Widow 
Simms when calm was a very different woman, praying 
then for her boy, and even asking forgiveness for the 
stirrers up of the rebellion. At Annie s request she had 
at last come to live altogether at the cottage in the Hol- 
low, and it was well for both that they should be together, 
foi the widow’s stronger will upheld the weaker Atith> 


NEWS OF THE BATTLE. ISfi 

who, in her turn, imparted much of her cwn trustingj 
childish faith to the less trusting widow. 

Greatly Annie mourned as the days went on, becaus4 
no line came to her from George himself, nothing in hi» 
own handwriting, when he knew how she desired it, if il 
were but just his name. What made him always depu* 
kizo Mr. Mather to write his letters for him ? Annie put 
this question once to i?ose, but the twilight was gathering 
OTer them, and so she failed to see the heightened color 
on Rose’s cheek and the moisture in her eye. Rose did 
not DOW, as formerly, bring her William’s letters, and 
read to her every word he said of George. She only 
told her how cheerfully George bore his illness, and how 
Will read to him every day from Annie’s Bible, choosing 
always the passages she had marked, but the rest was all 
withlield and Annie never dreamed the reason, or of the 
effort it cost the talkative little Rose to keep back what 
William said she must until the w^orst w’ere known. 

Thus the August days glided by, one by one, until the 
summer light faded from the Rockland hills, and Septem- 
ber threw over them her rich autumnal bloom, and then 
one day there came a note for Annie, written as of old by 
WiUiam Mather, but signed by George himseK. Poor An- 
nie, how she cried over and kissed that signature, to which 
George had added, “God bless you, darling Annie.” Ever^ 
letter was unnaturally distorted, and few could have de- 
ciphered the words; but to the eye of love they were plain 
as noonday, and Annie s kisses drop], ed upon them until 
they were still more blui’red than when they came to 
her. 

It was very hard for Rose to keep from tellmg the 
dreadful story of what had followed the penning of those 
brief words, “ God bless you, darling Annie.” But WiD 
bad said she must not^ so she made no sign, only her armi 


ROSE MATHER 


lU 

clung closer around Annie’s neck, and lier lips iingerec 
longer upon the snowy forehead as she said good night, 
and went away with the secret which Annie must noi 
know then. 


CHAPTEE XI. 

THE WOUNDED SOLDIE*. 

those polished, cruel-looking instruments 
glittered, and flashed; and how 
the sick man shuddered as he glanced toward 
the table where they lay, asking, with quivering lip, il 
there were no other alternative save the one their pres- 
ence suggested. 

“ None but speedy death !” was the response of the 
attending surgeon, who was too much accustomed to 
just such scones as this, to appreciate the feelings of that 
poor soldier, shrinking so painfully from what they told 
him must be if he would live. 

“ None but speedy death,” — George repeated the words 
slowly to himself, dwelling longest upon the last, as if to 
accustom himself to thoughts -of it. 

“Wait a little, wait till I think the matter over,” he 
said, in reply to the question, “are you ready?” and 
turning his face to the wall, so that those about him 
should not see the fearful conflict going on, he thought 
h)ng and earnestly. Wasn’t it better to die than go 
back to Annie maimed and disfigured for life ? Better 
die than loss a portion of the manly beauty of which he 
oad been so proud. Would Annie love nim just the 
•ame, even though the strong right arm, which had toiled 


THE WOUNDED SOLDEEK 


186 


for her so clieerfuUy, cotild never work for her again, 
never encircle her in its embrace? Would the sea red 
stump be as dear to her as the well-moulded limb had 
been ? lie did not know, and the tears, which aU thrt ugL 
the weary days of his sickness had been kept back, iioTf 
fell like rain upon the pillow, as he fancied the meeting 
between his sweet young wife, and her poor, crippled 
husband. The cottage on the hill so earnestly coveted, 
would never be theirs now. He could not earn it. He 
could not earn much any way, with his left arm, and he 
groant? aloud, as he thought of the poor unfor tunate 
seen so often in the Kochester depot, peddling daily 
papers. Would he ever come to that ? He, who, but a 
few months ago had so bright hopes for the future? 
Would the delicate Annie he had meant to shield so 
carefully from every ill of life, yet be compelled to earn 
the bread she ate ? It was a sad, sad picture the excited 
soldier drew of what the future might bring, and the 
fainting spirit had almost cried out, “I would rather 
die I” when there came stealing across his mind the 
memory of Annie’s parting words, 

“If the body you bring back has in it my George’s 
heart, I shall love you aU the same.” 

Yes, she would love him just the same, for, as it was 
not her fair, sweet face alone which made her so dear to 
him, so it was not his splendid form which made him 
dear to her. Annie’s love would not abate, even though 
he went back to her the veriest cripple that ever crawled 
the earth. But how different his going home would be 
from what he had fondly hoped. No papers heralding 
his arrival ; no dense crowd out to meet him; no fife 
trilling a jubilee; no d)‘um beating a welcome; no beU 
ringing its merr^'j^eal; no carriage, no procession; noth 
ing but the curious gaze of the few who might come ou\ 


186 


ROSE 


to see how George Graham looked without an arm, and 
whisper softly to each other, “ Poor fellow, how I pitj 
him !” He didn’t want to be pitied ; he would almcsi 
rather die; and he did not want to die either, when h« 
thought cahnly of it. He was not prepared; and forcing 
back the bitter tears, he turned his white, worn face to 
William Mather, bending so sadly over him, and whis 
pered; 

“ Tell them they may cut it off, but not till you’ve 
written to Annie, and I have signed my name. You 
know how she has begged for a word from me. Tell 
them to keep away; they shall not intrude on my inter- 
view with Annie.” 

George was growing excited, but he became calm 
again when he found himself alone with Mr. Mather, 
who wrote the letter which gave Annie so much joy. 
There was nothing in it of the expected amputation; 
nothing but encouragement that he should ere long come 
home to stay with her alw^ays. 

“ There, give me the pen,” he said, when the letter 
was finished, and the trembling fingers grasped it eager 
ly, but quickly let it fall as the purple, festered flesh 
above the elbow throbbed and quivered with the pain the 
sudden eflbrt caused. “ Once more; I’ll do it if it costs 
my life !” he whispered, nerving himself with might and 
main, and then, with ]Mr. Mather guiding his hand, 
he wrote his name, and the w^ords, “God bless you 
darling Annie !” “ It’s done, and she must never know 

the agony it cost me,” he moaned, as his bandaged arm 
fell heavily at his side, while with his other hand he 
wiped aw^ay the sweat w’hich stood so thickly upon hif 
face. “ Bring Annie’s Bible,” he said, “ and lay it on mj 
pillow. It will make me bear it better. Oh, Annie, ^Vn- 
if you could be here to pray for me I Cai.’t you f 


THE WOUNDED SOr.DIER. 137 

And the dim eyes turned imi)lorir.gly toward Mr. Mather 
who shook his head hesitatingly. 

Man of the world as he had been, he bad not yet 
learned to pray, but he could not resist that touching 
%1'peal, and bending down he answered: 

“ I never learned »to pray, but while the operation ia 
going on. I’ll do the best I can. Shall I call them 
now ?” 

George nodded, and William admitted the two sur- 
geons, who were growing somewhat impatient at the de- 
lay. They were not naturally hard-hearted men, but 
years ot practice had brought them to look on amputa- 
tions in a mere business point of view. Still there waa 
something about this case which touched a chord of sym- 
pathy, and they spoke kindly to the sufferer, teUing him 
it would soon be over, and was not haK so bad as losing 
a leg would be. George made no reply except to shud- 
der nervously as he saw the cold, polished steel so soon 
to cut into his flesh. 

“You’ll need bandages,” he said, his mind flashing 
backward to the day when he had looked in at Rockland 
Hall, where Annie, with others, sat working for just such 
a scene as this. 

“ It’s here,” Mr. Mather answered, pointing to a table 
where la}" a ball prepared for Company R. 

Without knowing why he did so, jMr. Mather took it 
ui) and began mechanically to unroll it, pausing sudden- 
ly as traces of a pencil met his view. There was some- 
thing written there, — something which made him start aa 
ne read, “Annie Howard. It’s your Annie, George. 
Try to think I’m there. Rockland, April, 18G1 ” 

Was it a happen so, or a special providence that this 
bit of linen, over which Annie’s prayers had been 
breathed, should come at last to him for whom it ww 


138 


ROSE MATHER. 


intended ? Mr. Mather believed the latter, and pointed 
it out to George, who, comprehending the truth at a 
glance, uttered a wild, glad cry of joy as he pressed it 
to his lips. 

“Yes, Annie, I know you are here. I can feel yom 
presence, and it will help to ease the pain. Begin with* 
out delay. Don’t wait, if it must be done.” 

There was a moment’s silence, a shutting of both 
William’s and George’s eyes, and a shriek of anguish 
rang through the room as George cried out, “ Oh, Annie, 
Annie, stand up closer to me, — it makes me faint, it hurts 
me so bad I Pray, Mr. Mather, pray !” and Mr. Mather 
did pray, the first prayer which had passed his lips since 
his early boyhood, — not aloud, but silently ; and the 
writhing victim grew still at last, only shivering once as 
the sharp saw glided through the splintered bone. Care- 
fully they bound up the bleeding stump with the soft linen 
Annie had sent, speaking comforting words to the suf- 
ferer, who seemed to be stupefied, for he did not notice 
what they said. 

It was done at last; and after t* few directions the 
operators hurried off to do for others, what they had 
done for George. Poor George, how long and weary 
were the days and nights immediately succeeding the 
amputation, and how horrible the sensation which 
prompted him to fancy the severed limb was there ; to 
feel the hot blood tingling through his finger tips, throb- 
bing through his wrists, streaming into his elbow joints, 
and then to know ’twas all a mere delusion, for the right 
arm once so full of vigor, was nought now, save a putri 
King mass buried away beneath the sod. He would not 
have Annie know it yet, he said. He would rather spare 
her as long as possible, and so the news was withheld 
from her, while day after day George waited and watched 


THB WOUNDED SOLDIER. 


189 


for the farorable cliange which should make it safe for 
him to undertake the tedious journey. Three times wa« 
the travelling-bag packed, with the hope of going to- 
morrow, and as often did the doctor’s stem mandate bi^ 
him wait a httle longer. 

At last the terribly nervous sensation passed a\Nay, 
taking with it all the pain, and leaving no feeling save 
one of intense uneasiness and languor, which the once 
strong man strove in vain to shake off, trying day after 
day to sit up, if only for a moment, and as often falling 
back upon his pillows from sheer exhaustion. He was 
only tired; he had never been rested since the battle, he 
said, and if he could once go home to Annie, and he upon 
the lounge, where he last saw her kneehng, he should 
iret well so fast. Often in his troubled sleep he talked of 
ner, begging her not to spurn her poor, crippled hue 
band, but to love him just the same. 

“ I never can work for you as I used to do,” he would 
say, “ never can buy that cottage on the lull, but Ood 
won’t let us starve, and I shall love you so much, sc 
much, when I find you do not shrink away from poor, 
mutilated George.” 

It was a sad, but not unprofitable lesson, which "Wil- 
liam Mather was learning by that bedside. At home in 
Rockland, where their positions were so different, he had 
always respected George Graham, but he had learned to 
love him now with a brother’s love, and gladly would ht 
have saved him for the sweet wife in whom his own dar- 
ling Rose was so deeply interested, and whose letters 
were silently working good in him as well as George. 
Greatly his persoiuil friends marvelled that he shuidd 
stay so closely immured within that sick-room, when he 
might, had he chosen, have mingled much in the 
world without, and many were the attempts they made 


140 


BOSE MATHER. 


to drag him away. But he withstood them all, and clung 
the closer to his friend, who leaned upon him with all the 
trustful confidence of a little child. Hour after hour hi 
sat by his jjatient, reading to him from Annie’s well 
worn Bible, and when at last the heavy cloud was lifted, 
and the pathway through the valley of death was divested 
of its gloom, he was the first to whom the sick man im- 
parte<l the joyful news, that whether he lived or died, 
all was well, — all was peace within. 

In silence and in tears Mr. Mather listened to the 
story of what was so strange to him, and in the next 
letter sent to Bose, he told her of the new resolves 
awakened within him, tracing them back to that humbla 
cottage in the Hollow, w’here Annie Graham, unknown, 
save to a few, was wielding a mighty power for good. 
Everything which he could do for George he did, and 
Annie herself could scarcely have been more gentle or 
kind; and George, — oh how grateful he was to his noble 
friend, blessing him so often for the kindly deeds. 

“ God will surely let you go home unharmed,” he said 
one day when Mr. Mather had been more than usu- 
ally attentive. “ I pray to Heaven every hour, that 
you may never know the dreary heart-pang it costs one 
to die aw^ay fi'om home, and all that we hold dear, for I 
am dying I have given up the delusion that to-morrow 
will find me better. I shall never be better until I w'alie 
In Heaven, — shall never go back to Annie,— never se< 
Diy old home again. It is a humble home, Mi\ Mather, 
but you can’t begin to guess how dear it is to me, be- 
caT*8e it is the spot where I brought Annie after she was 
a^ine. How well I remember that first night of house- 
keeping ; how proud I felt, knowing it was my home, my 
table, my wife sitting opposite — that her own darling 
bonds had made the tea, and cut the bread she passoJ 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIEE. 


141 


me, and that 1 had earned it, too. The poor have manj 
joys to which the rich are strangers, and I’ve sometimes 
thought we love each other more because there is httU 
else to divide our love. True it is that mortal man 
never loved a creature better than I have loved my 
iniiie. She was of gentler blood than I, — was far more 
iehcately reared, and I know it was an unequal match. 
Bhe was far above me in social position. Highly edu- 
cated and accomphshed, too; she was a belle and favor- 
ite everywhere, while I w^as only George Graham, — a 
mechanic and engineer. She kept nothing from me, and 
she told me of a childish fancy when she was a mere 
girl of fomteen, but if she ever sent a regret after the 
handsome, black-eyed boy, — the object of that fancy, — it 
was not perceptible to me. Still, I think that may have 
had its influence, — that, and the fact that her life 
was very wretched with her proud, hard aunt, on whom 
she was dependent, and who wanted her to marry a 
white-haired millionaire. But Annie chose me, and I 
have worshipped her with an idolatry which I know was 
sinful in the sight of Heaven, who will have the first 
place in our hearts. I have told you all this because 
your wdfe has been a fiiend to Annie, and I want her to 
know that Annie is her equal, if she did marry a poor 
mechanic. I am not blaming any one. I know the dis- 
tinctions there are in social life. I should feel just so, 
too, perhaps, if I was rich and had been educated 
AS you were. Even as it is I always was proud to 
think my wife was a lady-born, and I hoped one day to 
raise her to the position she ought to filL But that 
dream is ovei now. It matters httle what becomes ol 
the body after the soul has left it, though I should rather 
lie in Ilockland graveyard, where Annie can sometimes 
oome to see me, and I do so want to hear her voice once 


142 


BOSE MATHER 


more before I go, — to tell her with my own lips that il 
in Heaven I find a place, she has led me there.” 

“ Suppose we send for her,” Mr. Mather said, the glad 
thought flashing upon his mind of the joy it would be tc 
see his own darling once more, for if Annie came, Rosa, 
he knew, was sure to come also. “Ill send for both 
Annie and Rose at once. Tliey can come on together.” 

Mr. Graham made no objection, and Mr. Mather set 
himself to the task of writing the letter, which he hoped 
was to bring not only Annie, but his own precious Rose. 

“ Don’t say a word about my arm. I’d rather tell her 
myself. She won’t mind it so much when she sees how 
sick and weak I am,” George suggested; and so l\Ir. Ma- 
ther bade Rose keep the amputation to herself as here- 
tofore. 

“ You will defray Mrs. Graham’s expenses,” he wrote, 
“ and come as soon as possible, for her husband is nearer 
death than you imagine.” 

The letter was finished and read aloud tc George, who 
faintly nodded his thanks, and then the message was sent 
on its way to the North. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

GUTTING READY. 

f , I’ve such perfectly splendid news this morning; 
iVe are going to Washington right away, yon 
id I, for Will says so in his letter. You see 
George is a gi'eat deal, — George can’t, — well, Oecrge isn't 
very well /” and quite delighted with the happy turn shs 
bad given her words, Rcse skipped around Annie’s cot* 


GETl’iNa BEADT. 


14a 


tage like a bird, lighting at last upon a stool at Annie's 
feet, and asking if she were not glad. “ Why how white 
you are 1 * she, exclaimed, as she observed the paleness ol 
Annie’s cheek. “What makes you? Don’t you want tn 
to?” 

Anme was not deceived by Kose’s abrupt turn. She 
jcnew that George was worse, else he had never sent fci 
her: and hence the sudden faintness, which Rose’s gay 
badinage could not shake off at once. 

“ Did your husband write, or mine ?” she asked, and 
Rose replied, 

“Will, of course. George hsis never written, you 
know.” 

“ Yes, I know;” and in Annie’s voice there was a tone 
approaching nearer to bitterness than any that Rose had 
ever heard from her. “ Where is the letter ? Let me 
read it for myself.” 

But Rose had found it convenient to leave the letter 
at home, and so she answered, 

“ I did not bring it with me. I can tell you all there 
is in it.” 

“But will you?” and Annie grasped her shoulder 
firmly. “ Will you teU me all ? Tell me what it is about 
my husband, and why he never writes ? Is George dy 
ing, and is that the reason why he sends for me? Tell 
me, Mrs. Mather, for I will not be put off longer.” 

There was a look in the blue eyes before which Rose 
fairly quailed, and turning her face away she answered 
truthfully, 

“ Yes, George is very sick. He will never come home 
again; and he wants you there when he dies.” 

Softly the quivering lips repeated, “When he diesl” 
poor Annie wondering if it could be George who waa 
meant. Had the evil she most dreaded come upon her 


144 


ROSE MATHER 


at last ? IMust she give her husband up and live withoai 
him? IIow dark, how cheerless the future looked, 
■tretching before her through many years it might be 
Was there no hope, — no help ? It was Annie’s darkest 
hour of tri.al, and for a moment the spirit faint d, refus 
ing to bear the load which, though more than half-ex- 
pected, had come so sudden at the last. But Annie was 
not one to murmur long, and Bose Mather never forgot 
the sweet submissive smile which played over her white 
face as she said, 

“ Whether George lives or dies, God will do aU things 
well.” 

After this there was no more repining, no more bitter- 
ness of tone, nothing save humble submission to what- 
ever might be in store for her. 

Bose was very enthusiastic on the subject of the Wash- 
ington trip, and Annie listened eagerly to her sugges- 
tions. 

“It is absurd for two young ladies like us to travel 
alone,” Bose said. “We must have some nice elderly 
woman to matronize the party. I mean to write to 
mother to send up one from Boston.” 

“ Miss Marthers,” interrupted the Widow Simms, who 
aat by the window knitting for some soldier boy, “ Miss 
Marthers, don’t be a simpleton, a sendin’ down to Bos- 
ton for somebody to marternize you and Miss Graham, 
when you can find forty of ’em nearer home. “ Let rtu 
go. Eli and John are there, you know; and ’tain’t such 
% great ways to Bichmond, where my poor Isaac is. Did 
I t< 11 you I got a letter last night from a strange woman 
up in New Hampshire, whose boy was in the battle? 
The rascals let your brother write to her, because there 
waa something between her Charlie and a rebel oflScei 


GETTING READY. 145 

who was good to the child, when he was dyin*. There'i 
now and then a streak of good amongst *em.’* 

“Yes; but w'hat of Tomf** Rose asked eagerly, fv)r 
getting Washington in her anxiety to hoar from hoi 
brother, of whom not one word had been known aftei 
his name had appeared in the paper as one of the pria 
oners at Richmond, together with that of a boy called 
Isaac Simpson.” 

The more humane of Captain Carleton’s captors had 
repeated what the dying officer said of Tom’s kindness 
to him, and for this Tom had at last found opportunity 
for sending a note to Charlie’s mother, teUing her how her 
darling died, and asking her to write for him to his 
mother, his sister and the Widow Simms. This the 
grateful woman had done, but Rose had not received hei 
letter yet, and she listened eagerly while the widow read 
the very words which Tom had written concerning him- 
self and Isaac. There was but httle said of suffering or 
privation. Tom, it would seem, was tolerably weU cared 
for, but he told of days and nights when his heart went 
out in earnest longings for the loved ones at home, and 
then he spoke of Isaac, sajing, 

“ Tell his mother that he does not bear prison confine- 
ment well, and she would hardly know her boy. He is 
very popular among his fellow prisoners, and does more 
good, I verily believe, than half our army chaplains. 
One poor fellow, who died the other day, blessed Isaac 
8imms as the means of leading him to Heaven.” 

“ Oh, I’m so glad he’s there, ain’t you ?” and the tears 
shone in Rose’s eyes as she involuntarily paid this trib- 
ote to Christianity. 

“ On some accounts I am, and then again I ain’t,” was 
the widow’s reply, as she wiped the moisture from her 
glasses and returned them to her pocket. “I’m glad 
7 


146 


ROSE MATHER. 


he*s doing good, but I don’t want him sick there alone, 
without his mother. It’s hard to see why these things 
are so, but that’s nothin’ to do with the goin* tc 
Washington. Will you take me, Mrs. Marthers ? I 
I’m homespun and ignorant, but you may caU me waitin 
maid, or anything you like, if you’ll only take me.” 

The widow’s voice was full of entreaty, and Rose 
could not resist it. It would be grander^ she thought, to 
have a woman from Boston, but then Mrs. Simms wanted 
to go so badly, while Annie, too, preferred her, she was 
sure. So it was settled that as soon as the necessary 
arrangements could be made, Mrs. Simms, Annie and 
Rose were to start for the Federal Capital. Had the 
care of an entire regiment devolved upon Rose, she could 
not have been busier or have felt a greater responsibility 
than she did in planning and arranging the journey, and 
Detween times trying to initiate Widow Sknms into the 
mysteries of travelling, telHng her not to be frightened 
and think they’d run off the track each time the whistle 
blew, — not to show undue anxiety about her baggage, as 
she — Rose — should hold the checks, little brass pieces,^ 
which they would get at the depot, — not to bother the 
conductor by asking questions, or let the people know 
that she had never been further in the ears than Roch- 
ester. 

To all these directions the widow gravely promised 
compliance, saying, in an aside to Annie, “It does me 
good to see the little critter pattemize me, as if she 
e’posed I was a tamal fool, and didn’t know a steam fooo- 
^oco from a canal boat.” 

The day before the one appointed for the commence- 
ment of the journey came at last. Rose’s ihree trunks, 
of the size which makes the porters sweaty were packed 
to their utmost capacity, for Rose meant to make a win- 


GETTING READY. 


147 


ter’s campaign, and display her numerous dresses al 
parties and levees. So everything which she could pos- 
sibly and impossibly need, even to her skating dress, waa 
•towed away in the huge boxes, together with various 
kixuries for her husband and George, and then, as the 
afternoon was <^'awing to a close, she started for the cot* 
tage in the Hollow, to see that everything there was ir 
readiness. 

It had not taken the widow long to pack up her three 
dresses, and her small, old-fashioned hair trunk, locked 
and tied round with a bit of rope, was standing near the 
door ready for the morrow’s early train. On Annie’s 
face there was a hopeful, expectant expression, which 
told how glad she was at the prospect of meeting her 
husband so soon. 

“ Two days more and I shall see him,” she thought, 
picturing to herself the meeting, and fancying what shft 
would do, what she w'ould say, and how carefully she 
woidd nurse him when once she was there with him. It 
was a bright picture she di’ew of that meeting with hei 
husband, — of the kisses, the caresses, she would lavish 
upon him, and she was almost as impatient as Rose her- 
self to have the November day come to an end, knowing 
that with the darkness she was nearer to the asked-foi 
to-morrow. 

Just as the sun was setting, Rose took her leave, say- 
ing, as she bade Annie good-bye, “ I mean to drive round 
by the depot and get the tickets to-night, so as to save 
lime in the morning.” 

Annie smiled at the Httle lady’s restlessness, and after 
kissing her good-night, stood by the window watching 
her, as she drove down the street, and thinking to her* 
•elf, 

“ WTien I see her again it will be to-morrow** 


148 


BOSE MATHEB. 


Rapidly Rose Mather’s iron greys bc*r6 her to the <ie 
pot, wtiere but a few idlers were lounging, as it was paai 
the hour for tha cars. The window between the ladies’ 
litting room, and the office was closed, and Rose knocked 
vgainst it ll '^ain. The ticket agent had gone to his tea, 
ind with a feeling of dissatisfaction Rose was turning 
away, when a sharp, chcking sound from an adjoining 
apartment reached her ear, and stepping to the open door, 
she stood looking in, wffiile the telegraphic operator re- 
ceived a ^mmunication. What was it that made him start 
so, and utter an exclamation of surprise ? Was it bad 
news the wires had brought to him? Had there been 
another battle? Was Washington in danger? Rose 
wished she knew, and she was about to inquire, when 
the operator turned upon her, and asked if she knew Mrz. 
Oraham, wife of the Lieutenant ? 

“Yes, yes; has anything happened to him ?” she an 
flwered, grasping the now written message, which the 
agent handed her, saying: 

“ Break it to her as gently as possible. He was the 
finest fellow in all the company,” and the kind-hearted 
man, not yet accustomed to the horrors entailed by the 
vs ar, wiped a tear away, as he muttered to himself, “ Poor 
George I” 

There was no need for Rose to open the envelope, for 
she knew well enough what it contained, but her fingers 
m^.chanically tore it apart, and with streaming eyes she 
read the fatal message which would break poor Annie’s 
hrai’t 

“ Oh, I cannot tell her,” she cried, sin king down upon 
^8 hard settee, and sobbing bitterly. “How can J 
tai£e this to her, when I left her so happy half an houi 


GETTING READY 


14 « 


Bnt it nrnst be done, and summoning all her courage 
abe bade Jake drive back to tbe Hollow, skivering as she 
saw tbe cheerful light shining from the window, and 
shrinking more and more from the task imposed upon 
her, when, as she drew nearer, she saw Annie’s bright^ 
joyous face as she put together the garments for to-mor- 
row, pausing occasionally to speak to Widow Simms, who 
sat before the blazing fire, dreaming visions of what migbi 
be could she but get a pass to Kichmond I 

Don’t you hear wheels ?” the widow asked as the car- 
riage stopped before the gate. 

Annie thought she did, and going to window she saw 
Rose as she came up she walk. 

“ TMiy, it’s ]\Irs. Mather,” she cried. “ MTiat can have 
brought her back to-night ?” and hastening to the door 
she led Rose in, asking why she was there. 

“ Oh. Annie,” Rose replied, winding her arms around 
Annie’s neck, “ I wish I did not have to tell, but I must, 
and I know it will kill you dead. I’m sure it would me, 
and I don’t see why you should be served so either. We 
shall not go to-morrow, for Will is going to bring him 
home. Don’t you know now ? Can’t you guess ?” and 
Rose thrust the dispatch into the hands of the bewildered 
Annie, who clutched it eagerly, and bending to the lamp- 
light, read what Rose had read before her. 

It came to her hke a thunderbolt, striking all the deep- 
er because it found her so full of eager expectation; and 
the November wind, as it swept past the door, and down 
the lonely Hollow, took with it one waihng cry of anguish, 
and then all was still within the cottage, save the sobbing 
whispers of Widow Simms and Rose bending over the 
unconscious form w^hich lay upon the bed, so white and 
still that a terrible fear entered the heaids of both lest 
the stricken Annie, too, were dead. 


BOSS MATHER. 


CHAPTEK XTH 

THE DYING BOLDIBB. 

f .CEWAED now we turn, and stand again in th« 
sliamber where we saw the glitter of the polishes! 
steel, and heard the bitter cry foiced out by pain 
from lips unused to give such sign of weakness. They 
were white now as the wintry snow which covers the 
Northern hills, and the breath came feebly from between 
them, as the sick man whispered faintly: 

“I shall not be here if Annie comes, for when the 
drum beats on the morrow, calling my comrades to their 
daily drill, I shall be far away where sounds of battle 
were never heard but once. Oh the peace, the quiet, the 
rest, there is in Heaven. I hope you wiU one day come 
to share it with me; you who have been kinder than a 
brother,” and the long, white fingers grasped the hand 
which for so many days and weeks had soothed the ach- 
ing head and cooled the fevered piUows with aU a wo- 
man’s tenderness. 

Never for an hour had that faithful friend deserted hi» 
post. Day and night had found him there, ministering 
to every want, and, as far as human aid could do, smooth- 
ing the pathway leading so surely down to death. Bui 
his vigils were almost over now; his release was just at 
hand, for, as George had said, the morrow’s drum-beat 
would only find there the body, which was so worn by 
Bulfering and disease, that William Mather could lift it in 
his arms as easily as he could have lifted a little child. 
He was greatly changed from the days when he had been 
aptly called the Kockland Hercules. But as the outei 
man decayed, the inner hfe grew strong and V right, shin- 


THE DYING SOLDIER. 


m 


ing forth at the last with all the splendor which perfeci 
faith in Christ’s Atonement can shed around a death-bed. 
There was no repining now, no murmuring at the myste- 
rious dealings of Providence, nothing but sweet, childwh 
confidence, and a patient waiting for the end coming on 
wo fast that George himself could feel the irregular beat 
of his wiry pulse, and mark the death hue as it came 
creeping on, settling first in purplish spots about his fin- 
ger tips, and spreading its ashen coloring over his clam- 
my hands. 

A stormy November night had closed over Washington, 
and the rain beat dismally against the windows of the 
room where Mr. Mather bent over the dying soldier, lis- 
tening to what he said. 

“You can’t tell Annie oZZ,” George whispered, looking 
fondly up into the face he had learned to love so well 
“You must write it down so as not to lose a single word. 
Bring pen and paper, and then sit where I can see you, 
for the sight of you does me good; you have been so kind 
to me. 

The writing utensils were brought, and then sitting 
where George could look into his face, Mr. Mather wrot€ 
as the dying man dictated: 

Mt deab, deab, DAKiiiNQ Annie: — It will be days, perhaps, befora 
yon see this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told 
you that your poor George is dead ! Are you crying, darling, as yoB 
read this ? Do the tears fall upon the words, ‘poor George is dead f 
Don’t cry, my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how 
you will sorrow and I not there to comfort you. It’s hard to die 
away from home, but not so hard as it would once have been, for 1 
hope I am a different man from the one who bade you good-bye a few 
short months ago ; and, darling, it must comfort you to know that 
your prayers, your sweet influence have led the wanderer home to 
God. We shall meet again in Heaven, Annie, — meet where parting! 
are unknown. It may be many years, perhaps, and the grass upon 
my grave may blossom many times ere von will sleep the sleep which 


152 


BOSE MATHEK. 


knows no waking but at the last you 11 come where 1 am waiting you 
I know I shall be there, Annie. All the harassing doubts and fean 
are gone . Simple faith in the Saviour’s promise has taken them away, 
and left me perfect peace. God bless you, Annie darling, and grant 
that as you have guided me, so you may guide others to that hom# 
above, where I am going so fast. You have made me very happy 
since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It makes my 
death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever passed 
between us, — nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not 
good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myselfi 
You should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than 
I, a poor mechanic. I have alw'ays felt this more than you, perhaps, 
Eind have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways, 
had I lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining 
influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it is 
so. As you grew older you might have felt there was a lack in me, a 
something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature, 
and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen 
that we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way, 
but 1 am not a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself, 
and I’ve often w'ondered that you should have chosen me. But you 
did, and again I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as 
the one I spent with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was look- 
ing forward to many such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and 
what he does we know is right. I shall never see you again ! and 
though they will bring me back to you, I shall not feel your tears 
upon my face, or see you bending over my cofl6in-bed ! Still I know 
you will do this, and that makes it necessary for me to tell what, pei- 
haps, has been too long withheld, because I would spare you if pos- 
sible. 

“Annie, had I lived, I never could have toiled for you as I onr« 
did, for where the right aim, which has held your light form so often, 
used to be, there is nothing now but a scarred stump, £ind this is 
why I have not written- Does it make you sicken and shrink away 
from me ? Don’t, Annie. Your crippled husband’s heart is as full 
of tenderness now as ever. I was too proud of my figure, Annie, and 
the thought that you might love me less when you knew how maimed 
I was, hurt more than the cold, sharp steel, cutting in^-o niythiobbing 
flesh. 

“And now, dear Annie, I come to the hardest pan, of all I know 
tost how you’U start and shudder at what you deem so <n ael 


THE DYING SOLDIER. 


161 : 


lion, -know just how keen the pang will be, for I have felt the same 
and my spirit well nigh fainted as I thought of the time when anoth- 
er’s caressess than mine would caU the sweet love light to your eye 
and kindle the soft blushes on your cheek. Listen to me, Annie, 
You’ll be glad one day to remember that I told you what I did. You 
are young and beautiful, and though you do not believe it now, the time 
will surely come when my grave will not be visited as often as at first 
And the flowers you will plant above me when next spring’s sun is 
shining will wither for want of care, and the rank grass growing there 
will not be trodden down by your dear little feet, for they will be 
waiting by another fireside than ours in the HoUow, and my Annie 
will bear another name than mine. Do you discredit me, darling ? 
It will surely be, and I am willing that it should, but y<^ will never 
know the anguish it costs me to be willing. It is the bitterest drop 
in all the bitter cup, but I drank it with tears and prayers, and now 
I can calmly say to you what I am saying, — can even from my death- 
bed give you to another, whoever he may be. You can never forget 
me, 1 know; never forget your soldier husband, who feU in his coun- 
try’s cause, but by and by thoughts of him will cease to give you 
pain, and our short married life will seem like some far-off dream. 

‘ ‘ I cannot say how it would be with me were you taken and I left 
but I am much like other men, and judging from their example 1 
should do just as they do, so if in after years another asks you, as I 
once did, to be his guiding star, don’t refuse for me. Think that 
from my low grave I bless you in your new relations, and will wel- 
come you to Heaven all the same, though you come fettered and 
bound with other links than those my love has thrown around 
you. 

“lam almost done now, Annie. There is a gathering film oefora 
my eyes, and I feel the death chill creeping through my veins. It 
would be sweet to have you here, as I go down the brink up which 
no traveler has ever come; but it cannot be, and I will not repine. 
There is One with me whose presence is dearer far than yours could 
be; One whose everlasting arm will be beneath me as I pass ovei 
Jordan. Leaning on Him I need no other stay, but shall go fetu*- 
essly dowTi to death. There is another with me, too,— an earthly 
iriend, who has been kinder than a brother, and my heart clings tc 
him more fondly than he can ever guess. Always respect William 
^itliar, Annie, for what he has been to me. Pray that prospenty 
may attend him all his days, and that at the last he may find a place in 
Heaven. He is thinking of these things, I know, and from the 


154 


BOSE MATHEB. 


dreary hours spent with me there may yet spring fep plants of mro 
lasting growth. 

“ My mind begins to wander, darling. There’s a rushing somd ui 
my ears, while thoughts of you and thoughts of that terrible Sabbath 
battle are blended together. Good-bye, my precious one. Don’t 
ary too much when you read this. It is not good-bye forever, A few 
more years of earth to you, a moment of heavenly bliss to me 
and then we meet again, where golden harps are ringing. I can 
almost hear them now, — almost see the shining throngs sent out to 
meet me, just as I once vainly dreamed the Rockland people would 
come to welcome me home from war. In fancy I put my arms axounq 
your neck just as I used to do; in fancy hold you to my bosom ; 
in fancy kiss your girlish lips, and smooth your pale brown hair. 

“ I don’t know how you’ll live without me ; don’t know who will 
earn your bread, but the God of the widow and fatherless will surely 
care for my darling and keep her heart from breaking. WiOi him I 
leave you, knowing you are safer there than elsewhere. 

“Good-bye, good-bye.” 

There were great tear blots upon this letter, for Mr. 
Mather, as he penned it, had wept over it like a child, 
forming a resolution which he wondered had not sug- 
gested itself before. Eneeling by the dying G eorge, he 
said, “ God will care for your darling, and I shall be His 
instrument. So long as I have a home, Annie shall net 
Jiuffer. Rose’s love was given to her long ago and mine 
tvill follow soon. She shall be a sister to us both.” 

The glazed eyes lighted up with joy, and the white Hpa 
whispered the thanks which ended in a prayer for bless- 
ings on one who had proved himself so kind to the poor 
fioldier. 

“ Come closer to me,” they said; “ take my hand in 
yours and keep iv there while I thank you for what 
you’ve been to me. Tou’U forgive me, I know, that 1 
ever thought you proud, for I did, and sometimes there 
was a bitter feeling in my heart when I saw your Rose 
surrounded with every luxury, and thought of Ainia, af 


THE DYING SOLDIER. 


m 

highly educated as she, taking a far lower place in Rock- 
land, because her husband was a mechanic. There ii 
more of that feeling among the working classes than you 
imagine, and you don’t know how much good a familial 
word or a little notice from such a you does to those whc 
fill the humbler walks of life. Women feel this more 
than men, and again I bless you for the care promised mj 
Annie. I do not ask that you should take her to your 
home as you suggest. You’ll think differently of that bye 
and by, but see that she does not want; see that no win- 
ter night shall find her hungry, no winter morning cold 
Oh, Annie, Annie, that you should ever come to this !” 

It was a bitter, wailing cry, embodying all the mighty 
love the sick man had ever felt for his young wife. George 
had thought himself resigned, but weak human nature, 
which clings so tenaciously to life, was making one last 
effort for the mastery, and the worn spirit fainted for a 
time in the fierce struggle which ensued. The mind be- 
gan to wander, and was in fancy back again at the cot- 
tage in the Hollow, where the soldier clasped his Annie 
to his bosom, begging of her in piteous tones not to love 
him less because he was a cripple. I have only one arm 
to work with now, but I won’t let you starve, for when 
there’s but one crust left. I’ll give it aU to you, and laugh 
80 merrily that you wiQ never guess how the hunger pain 
is gnawing at my heart. I’ve felt it once, my darling. I 
know just what it’s like. ’Twas on that terrible day 
virhen our brave boys met the foe, way up there at Man- 
ftssas. There were houi'S, and hours, and hours, when 
ive neither ate nor drank, and the July sun poured down 
so hotly, drying the perspiration which dropp&i from my 
hair like rain. ’Twas my very life I sweat away that aw- 
ful day, fighting for the Union. Did you hear the bat- 
tle, Annie, — hear the cannon’s bellowing thunder as il 


156 


ROSE MATHER. 


echoed through the Yirginia yroods? Wasn’t it grand 
the yell the Highlanders gave, as, with the 69th, thej 
bore down battery after battery, and plunged into the 
enemy’s midst ! How bravely our company played their 
part, fighting their way through shot and shell, and 
blood and brains, wading ankle-deep in human gore » 
Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes, my boys! Three 
cheers for the Federal Flag ! Yes, give us three times 
three; and when it floats again over aU the land, remem- 
ber the soldiers who helped defend it. Hurrah, hur- 
rah!” 

Mr. Mather shuddered as the wild shout rang through 
the room. It seemed so hke a mockery, that dying sol- 
dier shouting for liberty, and trying in vain to wave aloft 
his poor, scarred stump. Anon, however, the patriotic 
mood was changed, and the voice was very sad which 
whispered: 

“ But hush ! what sounds are these, mingling in the 
glad notes of victory ? ’Tis the widow, the orphan, the 
mother, weeping over the slain ! There’s mourning East 
and West; there’s weeping North and South, for the 
dead who will return no more ! A crushed rebellion is 
hardly worth the fearful price. Oh, Annie, pray for the 
poor soldier, — everybody pray. Honor our memory,— 
forget our faults, — speak kindly of us when we are gone. 
We gave our hfe for freedom ! ’Tis all that we can do. 
Speak kindly of the soldiers slain !” 

Beason was strugghng back again; and bending lower, 
Mr. Mather said : 

“ George, we will honor the soldiers dead, and care for 
the soldiers hving.” 

“Yes, yes!” George answered, faintly. “They need 
it so much, — more than the people guess who stay at 
home and read about the war. It will be long, and Iht 


THE DYING SOLDIER. 


167 


contest terrible. The North is strong, and the South 
determined, and both will fight like fiends. But right 
must conquer at last, and the Star Spangled Biinner 
ehaU wave again even over misguided Charleston, whos#- 
sons and daughters shall weep for joy as they greet th« 
joyful sight. God speed the happy day !” 

Mr. Mather could only press the hand which lay again 
in his. He could not speak, for he knew there was a 
third presence now in the sick-room, — that its dark form 
was shading the bed whereon he sat, and with that feel- 
ing of awe death always inspires, he sat silently watch- 
ing its progress, and thinking, it may be, of the future 
time when WiUiam Maiher would be the dying one instead 
of George Graham. Slowly the marble pallor and the 
strange chill crept on, pinching the nose, contracting the 
Ups, touching the forehead and moistening the soft brown 
hair which WilUam smoothed caressingly, as he bent 
down to catch the last faint whisperings of a spirit nearly 
gone. 

“We fought the battle bravely. TeU them not to be 
discoui'aged because of one defeat. Our cause is just. 
*Twill triumph at the last. Don’t be too bitter toward 
the South; there are kind hearts there as well ao here, 
and its daughters weep as sadly as any at the North. 
God help and pity them all. Annie, darling, I am almost 
home; so near thai I can see the pearly gates which 
atand open night and day. It is not hard to die, — no 
pain, no anguish now, — nothing but joy and gladness 
and everlasting rest, perfect rest for the Re- 

deemed.” 


Drearily the November wind went sweeping down the 
street, and the sobbing rain beat against the winiow 
whilst the misty daylight came struggUng faintly ink 


168 


KOSE MATHER 


tlie sileut room wliich held the living and the lead ; the 
one cold^ and white, and still, his features wearing a 
smile of peace as if he had indeed entered into everlast 
Ing rest, — the other kneeling by his side, and with his 
face buried in the pillows, praying that when his time 
should come, he, too, might die the death of the righte 
ous, and go where Georg© had gone. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


MATTEES IN ROCltLAND. 


ITH quivering lip Mr. Mather told the membem 
of Company R that their heutenant was dead ; 
and strong men as they w’ere they did not deem 
themselves unmanly that they wiped the big tears away, 
and crowding around their informer anxiously asked for 
particulars of their departed comrade, all speaking kind- 
ly of him, and each thinking of the sweet girl-wife at 
home on whom the news would fall so crushingly. A 
soldier’s dying was no novel thing in Washington, 
and so, aside from Company R, there were few who 
knew or cared that another soul had gone to the God 
who gave it, — that another victim was added to the list 
which shall one day come up with fearful blackness be- 
fore the provokers of the war. The drums beat just the 
saaie, — the bands played just as merrily, and the busy 

tide went on as if the quiet chamber in street 

held no stiffened form, once as full of hfe and hope as 
the gay troops marching by. 

But away to the Northward there was bitter mo im- 
mg, and many a bright eye wept as the sad news rao 


MATTERS LN ROCKLAND. 


ftiong the streets that Kockland’s young litout-onaM, of 
whom the people were justly proud, lay dead in Wash- 
ington, and many a heart beat with syjnpathy for the 
young wife who, ever since hearing the fatal news, had 
lain upon her bed, more dead than alive, with a loot 
upon her white face which told better than words of the 
anguish she was enduring. 

Nothing could induce Eose to leave her for a moment 
** WiU had staid by George,” she said, “ and she should 
stay by Annie.” 

With her sitting by, Annie grew stronger, and could 
at last talk calmly of what was expected on the morrow. 

“ It wiU be terrible,” she said, “ to hear the tramp of 
feet coming up the walk, and know they are bringing 
George! Oh, Mrs. Mather, youll stay by me, won’t 
you, even if your husband is among the number ?” 

Annie did not mean to be selfish. She was too much 
benumbed to realize anything fully, and she never 
thought what it would cost Rose to stay there, knowing 
her husband would seek her at home, and be so disap- 
pointed at not finding her there. Rose could not refuse 
a request so touchingly made, but just as the morning 
broke she went home for a few moments to see that all 
necessary preparations were made for Will’s comfort; 
then, penning him a note to tell why she was not there 
to meet him, she returned again to the cottage, where 
Widow Simms was busily at work setting things to rights 
(or the expected arrival, her tears falling upon the fur- 
niture she was dusting, and her chest heaving with sobs 
as she heard in the distance the sound of a gathering 
crowd, and thought, 

“ It may be my boy they’U go up next to meet.” 

Poor Annie, too, shuddered and moaned as she caught 
the o’^^ous sounds, and knew what they portended. 


160 


ROSE MATHER. 


“ It would be better tu bring him back quietly,” eh# 
said. ‘‘It seems almost like mockery, this parade 
which he can never know. I may be glad, by and by 
that they honored him thus, but it’s so hard now,” anc 
>3vering her head with her pillow, Annie wept silently r{ 
ha heard the mournful beat of the muffled drum, and 
knew the march to the depot had commenced. 

How Rose wanted to be in the street and see hei 
husband when he came; but with heroic self-denial, she 
forced down every longing to be away, and sitting dowr 
by Annie, busied herself with counting off the minutkjs 
and wondering if the clock would ever point to half-past 
ten, or the train ever arri^^e. 

There was a great crowd out that morning to meet the 
returning soldier, and George’s dream of what might be 
when he came back again was more than realized. 
There were men and carriages upon the street, and 
groups of women at the corners, while the little boys ran 
up and down. But in the beat of the muffled drum there 
was a tone which made the hearts of those who heard it 
overflow with tears, as they remembered what that dirge 
like music meant. Around the jammed white hat of the 
man who played the flfe there was a badge of mourning, 
and in the notes he triUed a mournful cadence far differ - 
ent from the patriotic strains he played as a farewell to 
Rockland soldiers, going forth to battle, with, hopes so 
sanguine of success. One of that youthfri h&nd war 
“.oming back; not full of life and fiery ambition as when he 
went away, dreaming bright dreams of tho glory he would 
win, and the laurels he would wear, wlicn once again he 
trod the streets at home. Not as a conquering hero, 
with the crown of fame on his brow, though the crown 
indeed was won, and where the golden light of Hc 5 a>en 
shines from the everlasting hills, he was wearing ii in 


MATTERS IN ROCKLAND. 161 

glory. But his ear was deaf to all earthi.y sounds, and 
the tribute of respect his Mends fain would bestow upon 
him, awakened no thrill in his cold, pulseless heart 
Still they felt that all honor was duo to the dead, and sc 
they had come up to meet him, a greater throng than 
any of which he had dreamed when ambition burned 
withia his bosom. There was a carriage waiting, too, 
just as he hoped there might be; a carriage sent express- 
ly for him, but the children on the sidewalk shrank 
away and ceased their noisy c]''.mor as it went by, its 
sombre appearance somew hat relieved by the gay color- 
ing of the Stars and Stripes laid reverently upon it. 

Slowly up the street the long procession passed, un- 
mindful of the rain which, mingled with the snow and 
sleet, beat upon the pavements, and dashed against the 
window-panes, from which many a tear-stained face 
looked out upon the gloomy scene, made ten times 
gloomier by the sighing of the wind and the rifts of 
leaden clouds veiling the November sky. Over the east- 
ern hills there was a rising wreath of smoke, and a shrill, 
discordant scream told that the train was coming, just 
as the carriage sent for George drew up to its appointed 
place. 

Gently, carefully, tenderly they Lifted him out, and set 
him down in their midst; but no loud cheering rent the 
air, no acclamations of applause, nothing save that 
dreadful muffled beat, and the soft notes of the fife, tell- 
ing to the passengers leaning from the windows that the 
dead, as well as the living, had been their fellow-trav- 
eller. The banner upon the hearse told the rest of the 
Bad story, and with a sigh to the memory of the unknown 
soldier, the passengers resumed their seats, and the train 
sped on its way, leaving the Eockland peoplf air no witl 
iheir dead. 


m 


BOSK 34ATHER. 


Eeverently they placed him in the carriage which non€ 
cared to shsire with him. Carefully they wrapped around 
him the Stars and Stripes, and dropping the heavy cur- 
tains, followed through the streets to the cottage in th< 
tiollow, which he had left so full of life and hope 
1x0 and that cottage there was a gathered multitude 
eext day, and though on the unsheltered heads of those 
without, the driving rain was falling they waited patient- 
ly while tlie prayer was said, and the funeral anthem 
chanted. Then there came a bustling moment, — people 
passing beneath the Star Spangled Banner, and pausing 
to look at the dead. There were sobs and teais, and 
words of fond regret, and then the coffin-lid was closed, 
and once more that muffled beat was heard, as with arms 
reversed the Eockland Guards marched up the walk, 
where, leaning upon their guns they stood, while strong 
men carried out then* late companion, and placed him in 
the hearse, the carriage s^ent for him. There was no rela- 
tive to go with him to the grave, — none in whose veins 
his blood was flowing, so Mr. Mather and Kose took the 
lead, followed by a promiscuous crowd of carriages and 
pedestrians, the very horses keeping time to the solemn 
music beaten by the drum, and played by the man in the 
jammed white hai 

Sbwly through the November rain, — through the 
November sleet, and through the November mist they 
bore him on through the streets which he so oft had 
trodden; on past the cottage he meant to buy for poor 
Annie, whispering to herself with every note of the toll- 
ing bell, George has gone to Heaven.” Onward, stUl 
onward, till streets and cottage were left behind, an(^ 
they came to where the mai’ble columns, gleaming' 
through the autumnal fog, told who peopled that si- 
lent yard. Just by the gate, the bearers paused, and 


HATTERS m ROCKLAND. 


m 


itood with uncovered heads while the solen^n worda 
were uttere \ “ Eai*th to earth, ashes to ashes, dust tc 
dust I” Then, when it was all over, the long procession 
moved through the spacious churchyard, past the tall 
monuments betokening worldly wealth ; past the less 
imposing atones, whose lettering told of treasure in 
Heaven; past the group of cedar trees and pine; past the 
graves of the nameless dead, and so out upon the highway, 
Rose Mather starting in alarm as the band struck up a 
quicker, merrier march, whose stirring, jubilant notes 
seemed so much like mockery. She knew it was the 
custom, but the music grated none the less harshly, and 
drawing her veil over her face, she wept silently, occa- 
sionally glancing backward to the spot of freshly up- 
turned earth where Rockland’s first soldier was buried, 
- -the brave, self-denying George, — who gave all he had 
for his country, and died in her behalf. 

Four weeks after George’s death, Annie left the cot- 
tage in the Hollow, and went to hve for a time with Mrs. 
Mather. Early orphaned, and thrown upon the charities 
of a scheming aunt, who, after her marriage with George, 
had cast her off entirely, there was now no one to whom 
she could look for help and sympathy save Rose, and 
when the latter insisted Uiat her home should be Annie’s 
also, while William, too, joined his entreaties with those 
of his wife, and urged as one reason his promise made 
to George, Annie consented on condition that as soon af 
her health was sufficiently restored, sh^ should io some 
thing for herself, either as teacher, or governess in some 
private family. 

Amid a wild storm of sobs and tears she h.id read nei 
husband’s dying message, growing sick and famt just as 
he knew she would when first she learned of his loss, 
and why it was he had never written to her himself. BuJ 


164 


ROSE MATHER. 


this was nangM compared to the horror which crept 
round her heart as she read what George had written oJ 
a coming time when the long grave by the gate would not 
be visited as often as at first, or he who slept thert 
remembered as tearfully. V 

“Oh, George, George I’* she cried, “it was cruel to 
tell me so,” and sinking to her knees, she essayed to 
breathe a vow that other love than that she had borne 
for George Graham should never find entrance to her 
bosom. But something sealed her lips, — the words she 
would have uttered were unspoken, and the rash vow 
was not made. 

Still there was an added drop to her already brimming 
cup of sorrow, and a sadder, more loving note in the tone 
of her voice when she spoke of her husband, as if she would 
fortify herself against the possibility of his prediction com- 
ing true. It was a sorry day when she finally left her 
cottage home, and only God was witness to the parting; 
but the dim, swollen eyes and colorless cheeks attested 
to its bitterness, as, with one great upheaving sob, she 
crossed the threshold and entered the carriage where 
Rose sat waiting for her, while the motherly Widow 
Simms wrapped around her the pile of shawls which 
were to shield her from the cold, and bade her god-speed 
to her new home. 

Rapidly the carriage drove away, while the widow re- 
turned to the cottage to perform the last needful office ol 
fastening down the windows and locking up the doors, 
then, with a sigh at the changes a few short months had 
wrought, she went back to her own long deserted home 
And the busy tide of life relied on in Rockland just the 
same as if in the churchyard there was no new-made 
grave, holding the buried love of Annie, who, in Rose 
Mather’s beautiful home, was surrounded with everj 


THE DESERTErt. 


10c 


possible comfort and luxury, and treated with as much 
consideration as if she were a bom princess, instead ol 
the humble woman, who, a few months before, was whollj 
winknown So the little ladj of the Mather Mansion. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE DESEHTEB. 

* OTHER had taken George’s place in Company 
1, and both the Widow Simms and Susan 
)imms shed tears of natural pride when they 
read that John was the favored one, and bore the title of 
Lieutenant. It more than half atoned for his long ab- 
sence to the young wife, who, greatly to her moiher-in- 
law’s disgust, was made the happ|r possessor of a set ol 
furs bought with a part of the new lieutenant’s in- 
creased wages. 

“Better lay by lor a wet day; but easy come, easy 
go. They will never be worth a cent. Tain’t like them 
Ruggleses to save, and to think of the silly critter’s 
cornin’ round in the storm just to show ’em, late on 
Saturday night; I’m glad I wan’t to hum,” was the 
widow’s muttered comment, as on the Sunday following 
the receipt of the furs she pinned around her high, 
square shoulders, the ton years’ old blanket shawl, and 
tying round her neck the faded tippet of even greate 
age, started for church, determining not to notice oi 
speak to the extravagant Susan, if she appeared, as she 
was sure to do, iri her new finery.” 

This was hardly the right kind of spirit for the widow 


166 


RUSE MATHER. 


to take to churcli, but hers was a peculiar nature, and 
tlie grace wbich would have sufficed to make Annie Gra- 
nam an angel, would hardly have kept her from boilinp 
over at the most trivial matter. This the widow fell 
and it made her more distmstful of herself, more carefu 
to keep down the first approaches of her besetting sin 
But the furs had seriously disturbed her, particularly as 
they were said to have cost $35 — “ more than she had 
spent on her mortal body in half-a-dozen years,” she 
thought, as, with her well-worn Prayer Book in hand, 
and a pair of Eh’s darned, blue socks upon her feet to 
keep them from the snow which had fallen the night be- 
fore, she walked rapidly on in the direction of St. 
Luke’s. 

There was an unusual stir about the doors, a crowd 
of eagerly talking people, and conspicuous among them 
was Susan, looking so pretty in her neatly fitting collar, 
and holding her little muff so gracefully that the widow 
began to relent at once, and to feel a kind of pride that 
“ John’s wife was as genteel lookin’ as the next one, il 
she did come of them shiftless Ruggleses,” but inasmuch 
as it was Sunday, she shouldn’t flatter Susan by speak- 
ing of the furs; but the first chance she got on a week 
day she’d tell her “she was glad she got ’em, if they 
didn’t make her vain; though I know they will,” she 
added; “ it’s Ruggles natur’ and she’s standin’ out there 
now, just to show ’em to the folks in the street goin’ to 
klie Methodis’ meetin’.” 

But the widow was mistaken, for Susan had scarcely a 
thought of her fui’S, so absorbed was she in throwing 
what little light she could upon a mystery which was 
troubling the people and keeping them outside the door, 
while they talked the matter over. It seemed that the 
sexton, when, at about ten o’clock on the previous nighty 


THE DESEnTER. 


167 


Le came to see that the fire kindled m the furnace at 
sunset was safe, had stumbled over a human form lying 
upon the pile of evergreens gathered for the Christmaii 
ieccrations, and placed for safe keeping in the cellar ol 
\he church. There was a cry between surprise and ter- 
ror, and a muttered oath, and then the ragged, fright 
ened intruder sprang to his feet, and bounding up the 
narrow stairway, fled through the open vestry door ere 
the sexton had time to collect his scattered senses. 

This was his story, corroborated by Susan Simms, who 
said that when, at about seven o’clock the previous night, 
she was passing the church, she saw a dark-looking ob- 
ject, which she at first mistook for a woman, but as she 
came nearer she saw it was the figure of a man who, 
at the sound of her steps, dropped behind a pile of rub- 
bish, and thus disappeared from view, — that feeling 
timid she did not return home that way, but took the 
more circuitous route past her mother-in-law’s, where she 
stopped for a moment and repeated the circumstance to 
the neighbor she found staying there. 

“ Then she didn’t come half a mile out of the way just 
to tell of her finery,” thought the widow, coming nearer 
to Susan, and even smoothing the soft fur, which, half 
an hour before, had so provoked her ire. 

Various were the surmises as to who the man could 
be, and why he had entered the lonesome cellar; and 
the morning services had commenced ere the knot ol 
talkers and hsteners at the door disbanded and took 
theii- accustomed places in the church. Kose Matliei 
was there as usual, but she knelt in her handsome pe^ 
alone, for Will had been gone from her two whole weeks, 
ind Annie was still too much of an invahd to veiitun 
out With others at the door she heard of the intruder, 
Ajid after asking a few questions she had passed into 


i68 


BOSE MATHEB. 


aisle, ¥rith a certain wise air about her, as if she kneB 
something which she should not tell I As one after an-* 
other came in, it naght have been observed that she 
turned often and curiously toward the door, glancing 
occasionally at the spot where Mrs. Baker, now a regular 
l-ttendant, was in the habit of sitting. She was not there 
to-day, a act which no one observed save Rose and the 
Widow Simms, the latter of whom only noticed it because 
Annie, she knew, was deej^ly interested in the repentant 
woman. “She’s sick, most likely,” the widow thought, 
while Rose, too, had her own opinion as to what kept 
Harry’s mother from church that Sunday morning. 

Meantime the object of their sohcitude sat crouching 
over the fire of wet green wood she had succeed 
ed in coaxing into a blaze, now looking nervously 
toward the half closed door of the small room her boys 
used to occupy, and again congratulating herself that it 
was Sunday, and consequently no one would be coming 
there to pry into the secret she was guarding as care- 
fully as ever tigress guarded its threatened young. The 
half frozen, famished wretch, fieeing from the shadow of 
the church out into the wintry storm which had come 
up since nightfall, had gone next to the tumble-down 
shanty of a house which Ikirs. Baker called her home. 
It was late for a light to be there, for Mrs. Baker kept 
early hours ; but through the driving snow the wanderer, 
as he turned the corner, caught a fr-iendly gleam shining 
out from the dingy windows, and waking in his breast 
ore great wild throb of joy, such as some lost mariner 
f«)els when he spies in the distance the fr’iendly bai’k and 
knows there’s help at hand. 

It was a desolate, di’eai’y home, but to the wanderer 
baetening toward it, and glancing so timidly s round m 


THE DESERTER 


169 


if behind each rift of snow there were bristling bayonets 
sent to stop his course, it seemed a splendid palace 
Could he gain that shelter he was safe. His mothel 
would shield him from the dreaded officers he fancied 
were on his track, and so, the sick, fainting man kept on 
until the old board fence was reached, where, leaning 
against the gate^, he stood a moment, and with his fever- 
ish hand scooped up the grateful snow to cool his burn- 
ing forehead. The tallow candle was burning yet within 
the cottage, but the fire was raked together on the hearth 
and the stranger could see the glow of the red embers 
and the broken shovel lain across the andiron. 

“I wonder what she’s doing up so late,” he whispered, 
and moving cautiously up the walk to the uncurtained 
window, he started suddenly at the novel sight which 
met his view. 

Years before, when he lived in New England, he re- 
membered that one day when playing in the garret he 
had found in a chest of rubbish, a large, square book, 
which Hal had said was their grandmother’s Bible. 
Aiterward he had seen it standing against a broken light 
of glass, to keep out the snow which sometimes beat in 
upon himself and Hal, and that was the last he could re- 
member concerning that Bible or any other belonging to 
his mother. How then was he astonished to see it l}ung 
on the old round stand, the dim tallow candle casting a 
flickering light upon the yellow leaves and upon the fig- 
of his mother bending over them, and loudly whis- 
peiing the words she was reading. It was not an en- 
liu3iy new business to Airs. Baker, the reading of the 
Bible, for after the news of Harry’s death she had hunted 
0[) the long neglected volume which had given her »ged 
mother so much comfort. It might bring consolation to 
her, she thought, and so with tearful eyes and aching 


8 


170 


BOSE MATHER. 


heart she had tried to read and understand the sacred 
pages, pencil-marked, some of them, by a sainted moth- 
er’s hand, and fraught with so many memories of the 
oldon time when she was not the hard, wrinkled, desolate 
creature people knew as Mrs. Baker. The way of life 
was still dark and dim to that half heathenish woman, 
but she was determinedly groping on, following the little 
light she had, and each night found her bending over 
the Bible ere she sought the humble bed standing there 
in the dark corner, just where it stood that morning when 
her two boys went away. 

It was far more comfortable-looking now than then, 
for there was a nice, warm blanket on it, while the outer 
covering was clean and new. Rose Mather had kept her 
promise given in the hour of the poor mother’s bereave- 
ment, and scattered about the room were numerous arti- 
cles which once did duty in the servants’ apartments at 
the Mather mansion. But the intruder did not notice 
these ; he was too much absorbed with the stooping 
figure, whispering a part of the 14th chapter of John, 
and occasionally wiping away a tear as she came to some 
passage more beautiful than the others. There were 
tears* too, in the eyes of the rough man outside, but he 
forced them back, and pressing closer to the window, 
watched the lone woman inside, as, sinking down upon 
her knees, with the flickering candle shining on her 
wrinkled face, she prayed first for herself and then for 
him, the hoy standing without the door, and listening, 
while his heart beat so loudly that he almost feared she 
would hear and know that he was there. But she paid 
no heed, and the tremulous voice went on, asking that 
God would follow and bless, and care for the Bdly boy 
far away, and oring him back to the mother who had 
never been to him what she ought. The name Billy boy 


THE DESERTER. 


171 


konched a tender chord, and stretching out nis handi 
toward her, the man who bore that name sobbed out, 

“ Oh, mother, mother. I’m here, I’m here I” 

There was a sudden pause, and turning her head th« 
tar tied woman listened. 

Was it the wind moaning round her lonesome dwelling, 
r was it poor dead Harry calling to her, as in her su* 
perstitious imagination she sometimes believed he did 
when she was praying for Billy, reproaching her that no 
prayer had ever been said for him, the lost one ? Again 
the sobbing crj^ and a rustling movement by the door. 
It could not be the wdnd, for that only shook the loosen- 
ed timbers or screamed through some gaping crevice, 
while this, whatever it might be, called: 

“Mother, mother, come.” 

Was it a warning from the other world, — a summons 
to foUow her first-born ? Annie Graham had said there 
were no such messa ges sent to us, and Annie was always 
right; so the frightened woman listened again until the 
rattling of the latch, and a feeble, timid knock told hei 
there was more than the winter wind or spirits of the 
dead about her house that night. There was a human 
being seeking to gain entrance, and tottering to the dooi 
she asked who it was, and what they wanted there. 

“ Mother, mother, let me in. I’m your Billy boy, come 
from the war.” 

The words were hardly uttered ere the door was 
opened wide, the frantic woman dragging rather than 
leading in the worn-out man, who, staggeiing forward, 
fell into her arms, oobbing piteously, 

“ I’m so sick and tired. I’ve been weeks on the road, 
hiding everywhere; for, mother, — shut the door tight, so 
nobody can hear, — I’ve run away ; I’ve had enough oi 
war, and so I left one night. You know 'vhat they do 


172 


ROSE MATHER. 


to deserters. Tliey hang them, neck and heels. Oh 
mother, mother, don’t let them find me, will you? I’ts 
done my best in one dreadful battle. They musn’t get 
me now. Will they, think?” and Billy cast a searching 
^jlance around the room to see that no officer was there 
»ith DOwer to take him back. 

Would they get him from her ? She’d like to see them 
do it, she said, as she led the childish deserter to the 
hearth, he leaning heavily upon her, and falling, rather 
than sitting upon the chair she brought. Weary of a 
soldier’s life, and satisfied with one taste of battle, he 
had stolen away one night when the rain and the dark- 
ness sheltered him from observation. Greatly magnify- 
ing the value put upon himself, as well as the chances 
for detection, he had not dared to take the cars, lest at 
every station there should be one of the police waiting 
to secure him. So he had made the entire journey from 
Washington on foot, travelling by night and resting by 
day, sometimes in bams, but oftener in the woods, 
ivhere some friendly stump or leafless tree was his only 
shelter. He had reached his home at last, but his hag- 
gard face, his blood-shot eyes, his blistered feet and tat- 
t(3red garments bore witness to his long, painful journey. 

With streaming eyes the mother hstened to the story, 
then Oldening the bed of coals, she warmed and chafed 
his half-frozen himbs, handling tenderly the poor, blis- 
tered feet, from which the soles of the shoes had 
dropped, leaving them exposed- But all in vain did she 
prepare the cup of fragrant tea, sent her that afternoon 
by All’S. Alather. Billy could do little more than taste it. 
fie was, too tfred, he said he should be better in the 
Qioming, after he had slept. So with eager, trembling 
bands his mother fixed the bed in the little room which 
had not been used since he went away, bringing her own 


THE DESEBTXB. 


171 


pillows, and tlie nice rose blanket given by liirs. Mather, 
together with a strip of carpet which she spread upon 
the floor so as to make it soft for Billy’s wounded, bleed 
ing feet. How sick he was, and how he moaned in hit 
fitful sleep, now talking of Hal^ now of being shot, and 
again of the Bible on the stand, and the prayer he heard 
his mother make. 

Mrs. Baker was not accustomed to sickness, but she 
knew this was no ordinary case, and she suggested send- 
ing for the doctor; but Billy started up in such dismay, 
telling her no one must know that he was there unless 
she wanted him killed, that he succeeded in communi 
eating a part of his terror to her, and she spent the en- 
tire Sunday by her child’s bedside, doing what she could 
to allay the raging fever increasing so fast, and keeping 
watch to see that no one came near to drag her boy 
away. 

The next morning it became absolutely necessary for 
her to leave him for a time, as she must procure the few 
necessaries he needed, and taking advantage of the heavy 
sleep into which he had fallen, she stole noiselessly out, 
hoping to return ere he should wake. Scarcely, how- 
ever, had she left the lane and turned into Main Street, 
when Kose came tripping to the gate, drawn thither by 
a curiosity to see if her suspicions were correct. She 
had learned from her husband of Bill’s exit from Wash- 
ington, and for some days had been expecting to hear ol 
ids arrival in town. That he had come she was certain, 
cind telling Annie where she was going, she had started 
rather early for Mrs. Baker’s. As her knock met with 
no response she entered without further ceremony, and 
passing on through the low dark kitchen came to the 
door of the little room where Bill lay breathing heavily, 
and muttering about camps, and guard-houses, ai>d 


174 


EOSl) MATHEBi 


deserters. The sight of suffering always awoke a chord 
of sympathy in Kose Mather’s bosom, and without a 
thought of danger she bent close to the sick man, and 
involuntarily laid her soft, cool hand upon his burning 
forehead. The touch awoke him, but in the wild eyef 
turned upon her there was no glance of recognition, oi 
took of fear. He evidently fancied himself back in 
Washington, and asked the name of her regiment. 

“Oh, I know,” he continued, still keeping his eye* 
died upon her, “ you’re the chap I took, but you’ve fell 
away mightily since then. Yankee fare don’t set well on 
your Rebel stomach, I guess,” and a wild, coarse laugh 
rang through the room, making Rose shudder and draw 
back, for she felt intuitively that Billy was mad. 

She was not, however, afraid of him, and standing at 
a little distance, she tried to reason with him, telling 
him she was not a Rebel, — she was Mrs. Mather, come 
to do him good. 

Bill only laughed derisively. “ Couldn’t cheat him. 
3ue8S he knew them eyes and them hands, white as cot- 
:on wool. I’ll bet I’ve got a ring that’ll lit ’em,'” he con- 
tinued, and reaching for his pantaloons, which he had 
insisted should lie behind him on the bed, he took from 
the pocket the costly diamond once worn by his Rebel 
captive, and confisticaied by him as ccni-tra-band. “ Try ii 
on,” he said to Rose, who mechanically obeyed^ wonder- 
ing why it should look so familiar to her. 

It was too large for her slender fingers, and dropping 
off, roUed upon the floor. Rose at once set herself to 
finding the missing ring, and had just returned it to its 
^wner when Mrs. Baker came in, terribly alarmed at 
finding Mrs. Mather there. Rose, however, quieted her 
fears at once by telling her she had knrwn for some 
days past of Bill’s desertion, and had kept it from everj 


THE DESERTIH. 


171 


one but Annie, because bei husband thought it oest 
She did not beheve he would be foUowed, she said, for 
Will wrote that he had become so reckless and discon 
tented that his absence was no loss to the army, but for 
a while it might be well that his presence should not be 
known in Rockland, as the people might be indignant at 
a deserter, and perhaps in their excitement do him some 
injury. 

“He ought to have medical advice, though,” she 
added, “ for I think he’s very sick.” 

Mrs. Baker knew he was, and fear lest he should die 
overcame every other feehng, making her consent that 
Rose should call their family physician. It was nearly 
noon ere he arrived, and in the meantime Rose had 
reported the case to Annie, and then returning to Mrs. 
Baker’s, took her place by BUly, who called her “ his 
Uttle Rebel,” and ordered her about as if he had been a 
commanding officer, and she his subordinate. The 
novelty of the thing was rather pleasing to Rose, and not- 
withstanding that the physician pronounced the disease 
typhus fever in its most violent form, she persisted in 
staying, saying some one must help Mrs. Baker, and she 
was not afraid. 

So day after day found her in that comfortless dwell- 
ing, while the frequent caUers at the Mather mansion 
wondered where she could be. It came out at last that 
she was nursing William Baker, lying dangerousl} sick 
of typhus fever in his mother’s dilapidated home, and 
then, as villagers wiU, the Rockland people wondered 
and gossiped, and wondered again how the aristocrati 
Rose Mather could sit hour after hour, in that poverty- 
stricken cottage, ministering to the wants of despised 
BiU Baker. Rose hardly knew, herself, and when ques- 
kio'^ed upox the subject could only reply — 


176 


ROSE MATHER. 


*‘I guess it*s because he’s a soldier, and I must ic 
Bomeihing for the war. Will knows it. He says I’m 
doing right, and Annie Graham, too.” 

And so, with her heart kept brave by thinking that 
Will and Annie approved her course. Rose went ever) 
day to IVIi’S. Baker’s, doing more by her cheerful presence 
and the needful comforts she supphed to arrest the pro- 
gress of the disease and effect a favorable change, than 
aU the physicians in the county could have done. Bill 
owed his hfe to her, and it was touching to witness his 
childish gratitude when reason resumed her throne, and 
he learned who it was he had sometimes called his “ lit- 
tle Rebel,” and again had fancied was some beautiful 
angel sent to cure and comfort him. He had often seen 
Mrs. Mather in the streets before he went away; but 
never as closely as now, and for hours after his conval- 
escence he would he looking into her face, which seemed 
to puzzle him greatly. Occasionally, too, he would take 
from his pocket a picture, which he evidently compared 
with something about her person, then, with a sly wink, 
which began to be very annoying, he would return it to 
its hiding-place, and ask her sundry questions, which, 
under ordinary circumstances, she would have resented 
as being too famiUar. 

At last, one afternoon, as she was sitting by him, while 
his mother did some errands in the village, he suddenly 
surprised her by dropping upon her lap an elegant gold 
watch, which Rose knew at a glance must have belonged 
to some person of taste and wealth. 

“ What is it ? Whose is it ?” she asked, and Bill ro 
plied: 

“ ’Twas his’n, the chap’s I tooK, you know. He’s down 
to the old Capitol now, shet up Didn’t yon tever heaj 
of him?” 


THE DESERTER 


17 ^ 


** You mean the young man you captured,” Rose re- 
plied. “Tell me about him, please. Who was he, and 
where was his home ?” 

“You tell,” Bill answered, with one of his peculiai 
winks. “He gave it as John Brown; but a chap whc 
imowd him said ’twas somethin* else. He wan’t a Rebel 
neither — that is, it wan’t his nater, for he came from 
Yankee land.” 

“ A traitor, then,” Rose suggested, and Bill replied: 

“ You needn’t guess agin; and you and I or’to be glad 
that no such truck belongs to us.” 

Rose colored scarlet, but made no response, for re- 
creant Jimmie flashed across her mind, and she shrank 
from having even the vulgar Bill know how intimately 
she was connected with a traitor. Bill watched her nar 
rowly, and thinking to himself, 

“ I’m on the right track. I’ll bet,” he continued, “ 1 
hain’t no relations in the Confederate army, I know, and 
I don’t an atom b’lieve you have.” 

No answer from Rose, except a heightened bloom upon 
hor cheek, and her inquisitor went on : 

“ Have you any friends there ?” 

Rose could not teU a Ue, and after a moment’s silence, 
she stammered out: 

“ Please don’t ask me. Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, I wish 1 
knew where he was 1” and the great tears trickled 
through the snowy fingers clasped over her flushed face. 

“ I’ll be darned if I aint cryin’ too,” Bill said, wiping 
his eyes with his shirt sleeve, “ but bein’ I’m in for 't I 
may as well see it through.” 

“What might bo your name before it was Mist 
Marthers ?” 

“ Oarleton 1” and Rose looked up quickly at Bill, wh# 
eontinued: 


178 


ROSE MATHER. 


** You came from Boston, I blieve ?” 

“Yes, from Boston,” and Rose leaned eagerly for\¥ard 
while Bill, with his faTorite “ Nuff said,” plunged his hand 
into his pocket, and taking out the picture, passed it tc 
Rose. 

Quick as thought the bright color faded from her cheek, 
ftnd with aahen, quiyering bps, she whispered; 

“ It's II It’s mine, taken for Jimmie, just before he 
' went away 1 How came you by it ? Oh tell me 1” and in 
the voice there was a tone of increasing anguish. “ Tell 
me, was it, — wa« it, — Jimmie, my brother, whom you took 
prisoner and carried to Washington ?” 

“ If James Carle ton ia your brother, I s’pose it was,*' 
Bill said; “and that’s the very picter he stuck to like a 
chestnut burr, begging for it like a dog, and offerin’ ev- 
erything he had if I'd give it up.” 

“ Why didn’t you, then ?” and Rose’s eye blazed with 
anger, making Bill shrink before their indignant gaze. 

“ ’Twas rotten mean in me, I know,” he said timidly, 
“ but they vxis con-trchband according to law, and I felt 
so savage at the peaky Rebels then. I didn’t know 
’twas you he teased so for, actually cryin’ when I 
wouldn’t give it up. I’m sorry, I be, I swan, and I’ll 
give you every confounded contraband. You’ve got the 
watch, and there’s the ring, the spetacles, the tobarker 
box, and the thingumbob for cigars, the sum total of his 
traps, except a chaw or so of the weed that I couldn’t 
very well bring back,” and Bill’s face wore a very satisfied 
expression as he laid in Rose’s lap every article 1 «longin 
to her brother. 

She knew now who the prisoner was in whom she had 
felt so strange an interest. It was Jimmie, and the mys- 
tery concerning his fate was solved. He was a captive at 
Washington, and her heart ached to its very core as she 


NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE. 


178 


thought of both her brothers languishing sc manj 
weary months in prison. Very minutely she questioned 
BiD, elicting from him little or nothing concerning 
Jimmie’s present condition. He only knew that he was 
a captive still, that he was represented as maintaining 
the utmost reserve, seldom speaking except to answer di* 
rect questions, and that he seemed very unhappy. 

“Poor boy, he wants to come home, I know,” and 
Rose sobbed aloud, as she thought how desolate and 
homesick he must be. “ I can’t stay any longer to-day,” 
she sa’.d, as she heard IVIrs. Baker at the door, and bid- 
ding Bill good-bye, she hurried home, where, after a long 
passionate flood of tears, wept in Annie’s lap, she wrote 
to her mother and husband both, telling them where 
Ji mmi e was, and begging of the former to come at once 
and go with her to Washington. 


CHAPTER XYL 


NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE 



•Si^HAT night, as Rose sat alone in her cheerful 
boudoir, musing upon the strange events which 
had occurred within the last few months, a letter 
was brought to her, bearing her mother’s handwriting. 
It had passed hers on the road, and Rose tore it open, 
starting, as a soiled, tear-stained note dropped from the 
inside upon the floor. Intuitively she felt that it was 
from Jimmie, and catching it up, she read the home-sick, 
heart-sick, remorseful cry of penitence and contrition 
which the weary Rebel- boy had at last sent to hig mother 


180 


BOSE MATHER. 


Stubbornesfl and proud reserve could hold out no longer 
and he had wi’itten, confessing his error, and begging 
earnestly for the forgiveness he knew he did not deserrei 



“I am not all bad,” he said; “and on that quiet morning, when 
beneath the cover of the Virginia woods I lay, watching the Union 
soldiers coming so bravely on, there was a dizziness in mj brain, and 
a strange, womanly feeling at my heart, while a sensation I cannot 
describe thrilled every nerve when I saw in the distance the Stars and 
Stripes waving in the summer wind. How I wanted to warn them rt 
their danger, to bid them turn back from the snare so cunningly de 
vised, and how proud I felt of the Federal soldiers when contrasting 
them with ours. I fancied I could tell which were the Boston boys, 
and there came a mist before my eyes, as I thought how your dear 
hands and those of little Rose had possibly helped to make some por- 
tion of the dress they wore. 

“You know about the battle. You read it months sigo, and wept, 
perhaps, as you thought of Jimmie firing at his own brother, it mign^ 
be, but, mother, I did not. I scarcely fired at ail, and when 1 was 
compelled to do so to avoid suspicion, it was so high that neither 
the wounded nor the dead can accuse me as their murderer; and I’m 
glad now that it is so. It makes my prison bed softer to know ther« 
is no stain of blood upon my souL 

“Poor Tom, I dare say, has written to you of our encounter 
in the woods, but he does not know the shock it was to me it 
meet him there, and know I could not help him. Dear Tom, my 
eart aches more for him than for myself, for the Richmond Prison 
Guards are not like those who keep watch over us. There are hu- 
mane people there,— kind, tender hearts, — which feel for any one in 
distress, but the jailers, the common soldiers, and the rabble, are 
not, I fear, as considerate as they might be. Many of them have 
been made to believe the w'ar entirely of the North’s provoking, that 
Hamlin is a mulatto, and Lincoln a foul-hearted knave, whose whole 
aim is to set the negroes free. But enough of Southern politics. H 
wiR aU come clear at last, and the Star-Spangled Banner wave 
again over every revolted State. 

“Write to me, mother. Say you forgive your Rebel-boy. Saj 
tnat, when I am exchanged, as I hope to be, I may come home, and 
Ibat you will not turn away from your sinful, erring 




NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE. 


181 


There was a message of love for Kose, and then the 
letter closed with one last, touching entreaty that the 
mother would forgive her child and take him back again 
tc her confidence and love. 

“ Of course shell do it,” Eose said, vehemently, and 
seizing a pen and paper she wrote to Will, inclosing a 
note to Jimmie, full of pardon and tender love, bidding 
him when he should be released come directly to Kock- 
land, where their mother should be waiting for him, and 
where she, forgetting all the past, would nui'se him back 
to health. 

Nearly a week went by, and then there came a letter 
from Will, teUing how he had visited the Rebel Jimmie in 
his prison, and Rose wept fi*antically as she read the par- 
ticulars of that interview when her brother first met the 
sister’s husband, of whom he had never heard. 

‘I found him sitting apart from the others,” William \rrote, “ap- 
parently absorbed in disagreeable reflections, for there was an ab- 
stracted look upon his face and deep wrinkles upon his forehead. If 
he had not been pointed out to me, I should have known him by hia 
striking resemblance to your family. The Carleton features could 
Aot be mistaken, particularly the proud curve about the mouth, and 
the arching of the eyebrows, while I recognized at once the soft, 
curling hair and brilliant complexion, which you will remember once 
attracted me toward a certain little giii, who is now all the world to 
the old bachelor Will. 

“But this isn’t a love letter, darling. I’m only going to tell you 
how sorry your brother looked sitting there alone in that noisy multi- 
tude, whose language and manners are not the most refined that 
could be desired, and how my heart warmed toward the solitary be- 
ing, and forgave him at once for all his errors past. Very haughtily 
he bowed lo me when I was introduced, and then in silence awfited 
to hear my errand, the proud curve around his mouth deepeiiiig as 
be surveyed me with a hauteur which, under ordinary circumstances, 
would have annoyed me exceedingly. As it was, f could almost fan- 
ry myself tho prisoner and he the freeman, he seemed so cool, at 
loUeoted, while I was embarrassed and uncertain how to sot. 


182 


ROSE MATHER 


“ ‘Is your visit prompted by curiosity to see how a so-callod Bcbd 
ean bear confinement, or did you come on business ?’ he asKed, and 
then all my embarrassment was at an end, 

“ ‘I came,’ I said, ‘ partly at your sister’s request, and partly to aa- 
certain how much you are willing to do toward the attainment of 
four freedom ' 

“ I do not think he understood the l^st. He only caught at th« 
words, ‘ your sister, ’ and grasping my arm, he whispered hoarsely, 
‘ What of my sister ? Have you seen her ? Do you know her, and 
does she hate me now ?’ 

“I told him I was your husband, and with quivering Hp, h« 
asked me, ‘Is she well, my precious little Rose, whom I remember as 
almost a child, and mother — has she cast me off? Oh, if she onlj 
knew how I am punished for my sin, she would forgive her wayward 

^oy-’ 

‘ ‘ Here he broke down in such a wild storm of sobs and tears, that 
the inmates of the prison gathered in groups around him, their looks 
indicative of their sui-prise at vdtnessing so much emotion in one who up 
to that moment had appeared haughtily indifferent to everything 
around him. With an authoritative gesture he waved them off, 
and then, passing him your note, 1, too, walked away, leaving him 
alone while he read it, but even where 1 stood I could hear the 
smothered sobs he tried in vain to suppress. I am inclined to think 
he is right in saying that joining the Confederate army was the 
best lesson he ever learned. I am sure he must be greatly changed 
Irom the reckless, daring boy, whose exploits you have described so 
often. He is very anxious to swear allegiance to the Stars and 
Stripes, even though he should be doomed to prison life for five 
more weary months, and as 1 am not a mere private now, and have 
considerable influence in Washington, I hope, ere long, to write that 
he is free, and on his way to Rockland, whither he will go first. 

Jimmie expresses the utmost sympathy for Tom, and says he would 
giadly take his place, if that could be, for he fears the inmates ol 
those Richmond tobacco houses are not always cared for, as bo has 
^n at Washington. Poor Tom, I hope he will be among the list 
if the exchanged, and if so, you may expect soon to welcome both 
/cur brothers. 

No wonder Rose wept tears of joy over his letter^ 
while her thoughts went after her rebellious, but repent 


NBWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE. 18i 

ftnt brother, nor tarried there, foi, farther tc the South, 
another weary captive pined, and every fibre of h^r heart 
bleed with sympathy for Tom — poor Tom, she always 
3aUed him — and as the days of sickening suspense went 
by she grew so nervous and so ill that her mother came 
up from Boston to attend her, while Annie shook off her 
own feelings of weary languor, and did for Rose the same 
offices which Rose had once done for her. 

“I do so wish you had been my sister,” Rose said 
to her one day, when she had been kinder than usuaL 
“ I know I should be a better woman, and so would all of 
us.” 

Annie made no reply, except to twine around her fin ' 
gers the coils of chestnut hair, lying in such profusion 
upon the pillows. For a few moments Rose lay perfectly 
still, with her eyes fixed upon the paper bordering, as if 
counting the fanciful flowers, but her thoughts were in- 
tent upon a far different subject. Turning to her moth- 
er, she suddenly asked: 

“ How old is Jimmie, twenty-three, or twenty-four ?” 

“ Twenty-three last May,” was the reply, and, with 
rather a troubled expression upon her face. Rose contin- 
ued, “ Will is thirteen years older than I am,” and the lit- 
tle curly head shook doubtfully. 

‘‘ What are you talking about ?” Mrs. Carleton asked, 
but Rose did not answer at once. 

There was another interval of silence, and then start- 
ing quickly. Rose called out, “ Mother, don’t you remem- 
ber that affair of Jimmie’s ever so long ago, when he was 
a boy at school in New London?” There was a little 
girl that he fancied, and you took him home for fear of 
what would come of it; when you found she was poor and 
nobody?” 

Glancing quickly at Annie, who was attenuvely exam' 


184 


ROSE MATHER 


ming the hem-stitch of the fine linen pillow-case, Mrs 
Carleton said, reprovingly: 

“You should not parade our family matters befcM 
strangers, my daughter.” 

“Oh, Annie is no stranger,” Rose answered, laugh* 
ingly. “ She’s one of our folks now', besides, she :s not 
enough interested in the love affair of a seventeen yean 
old boy ever to repeat it,” 

“Love afi’air!” Mrs. Carleton rejoined, a little scorn- 
fully. “Not very much love about it, I imagine. She 
was stopping with her aunt at the Pequot House, and 
Jimmie saw her a few times, passing himself off by an- 
other name than his own. If he had cared for this 
child he would never have done that.” 

“ He seems to have a penchant for assuming names,’* 
Rose rejoined, playfully. “He called himself John 
Brown, at Washington, while to this little Pequot girl he 
vas, let me see, what was it ? Can’t you think, mother ?” 

Rose was bent on talking about Jimmie and his Pe- 
quot girl, and knowing that she could not stop her, Mrs 
Carleton replied: 

“ Richard Lee, or something like that.” 

“ Oh, yes, ‘ Dick 1’ I remember now ; and her namei 
was, — what was it, mother ? It makes my head ache so 
trying to recall it.” 

“ If I ever knew, I’ve forgotten,” Mrs. Carleton said, 
and after trying in vain to think. Rose dismissed the 
name, but not the subject. 

“ How angry Jimmie was,” she continued, “ when you 
biought him home, and how awfully he swoi e. It makea 
you shudder, don’t it?” and she turned to Annie, who 
had shivered either with cold or horror at Jimmie’s pro- 
fanity. “ He was a bad boy once, but I most know 1 e*a 
better now. Maybe, mother, this was a real nice girl 


NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE. 


ISh 


uid if jou’d let Jimmie alone lie migM have become at 
tached to her, and she have been his wife by this time. 
Then he would not have joined the Kebel army. Don 1 
you think you and Tom were a little too severe on Jim 
mie sometimes ?” 

“ Perhaps so,” was the faint response, as Mrs. Carle- 
ton looked out upon the wintry landscape, seeiug there 
visions of a handsome, boyish, tearful face, flushed with 
anger and entreaty as its owner begged of her not to 
take him back to Boston, which he hated, but leave him 
where he was, saying that the little girl at the Pequot 
House had already done him more good than all the 
sermons preached from the pulpits of the Bay State 
Capital. 

But she had disregarded Jimmie’s wishes, and from 
that time forward he had pursued a course of reckless- 
ness ending at last in prison. With a half-regretful sigh 
Mrs. Carleton thought of all this, and in her heart she 
blamed herself for some of her boy’s disobedience. But 
it could not now be helped, and with another sigh, she 
turned toward Rose, stiU speculating as to what the re- 
sult might have been, had Jimmie been suffered to foUow 
up his first, and so far as she knew, only fancy. 

“ What do you suppose would have happened if Jim- 
mie had staid in New London, and this scheming aunt, 
whom mother feared far more than the Pequot, had staid 
there too ?” she asked of Annie, forgetting that the parti- 
culars of the affair had not been repeated. 

But it did not matter, for Annie answered aU the 
same. She was sitting now with her back to IMrs. Carle- 
ton, while, so far as Rose was concerned, her face was in 
the shadow. Conseqinently Rose could not see its ex- 
pression, as she replied: 

“ Nothing probably would nave come of it 1 imagini 


186 


ROSE MATHER. 


the Pequot, as you call her, was not more than fourteen^ 
And you know how easily we forget the fancies of thal 
age. She was undoubtedly pleased with the evident ad- 
miration of your handsome brother, and watched anx 
iously it may be, for the evenings when, with others oj 
his comrades, he came to the hotel; but a closer acquaint 
ance would have resulted in her knowing the deception 
about the name, and after that she would not have cared 
for him. If he reaUy hked her he would not have im- 
posed upon her thus. She’s forgotten him ere this, and 
is probably a married woman.” 

“ Perhaps so,” Rose replied ; ‘‘ I wish I knew. Jimmie 
didn’t mean to deceive her long. He took the name 
Dick Lee, partly in sport, and partly because he didn’t 
(vish his teacher to know how often Jim Carleton was at 
the Pequot House, when he thought him somewhere else. 
After he began to like her, and saw how pure and good 
and truthful she was, he hated to tell her, but had made 
up his mind to do so when mother took him away.” 

“ He might have wi’itten,” Annie said, “ and she may 
have been silly enough to cry over his abrupt and unex- 
plained departure.” 

“ Mother wouldn’t let him wiite,” Rose rejoined, laugh 
ingly. ‘‘ She watched him closely, and got Tom inter- 
ested too. Poor Jimmie, I wonder if that girl ever 
thinks of him now ?” 

“ She may, but I dare say she is glad your mother 
took him home. She has outlived all that fancy,” and 
Annie’s white fingers, on one of which the wedding-ring 
was shining, worked nervously together. 

As if bent on tormenting both her auditors by talking 
of Jimmin, Rose kept on, wondering how he looked, y 
she should know him, what he would say, how he would 
Act, and if he ever would come. 


NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE. 


187 


“Fm so glad you are here, Annie,” she said, for you 
do everybody good you come in contact with, and I waui 
you to talk to Jimmie, will you ?” 

Annie only smiled, but her cheeks burned with excito^ 
nient, and Kose was about asking if her head didn’t 
aohe, when a letter was brought in bearing the Wash 
ington postmark. Eagerly Kose broke it open, scream- 
ing with joy as she read that Jimmie had been released, 
— had taken the oath of allegiance, and was coming home 
to Rockland. 

“ He’ll be here, — let me see, — Thursday, on the three 
o’clock train. That’s to-morrow. Oh, I’m so glad I” 
and in her delight the httle lady forgot that for the last 
week she had been playing sick^ and leaping upon the 
carpet, danced about the room, kissing alternately her 
mother and Annie, and asking if they were evei so 
pleased in their livea 

“ Oh, I forgot !” she suddenly exclaimed, as she saw 
the great tears dropping from Annie’s eyes, and guessed 
of what she was thinking. “I did not mean to make 
you sorry contrasting Jimmie’s coming home with that 
of poor George. Dear Annie, don’t cry,” and the chubby 
arms closed coaxingly round the now sobbing Annie’s 
neck. “ Don’t cry. You’ll hke Jimmie, I know, and if 
you don’t, I know you’ll like dear Tom. He’s perfectly 
splendid, and he gave his place to George, you know.” 

Yes, Annie knew, but it only made her tears flow fas- 
ter as she thought of Kose, so full of hope, her husband 
yet alive, and her brothers coming home, while she, 
without a friend on whom she could lean, was alone in 
her desolate widowhood. Excusing herself from the 
room, she sought her own pleasant chamber, and there 
alone poured out her grief into the ear of One who al- 
most since she could remember had been the recipienf 


/ 


188 


BOSE MATHEB. 


of all her sorrows. And Annie had far more need ofl 
help than Rose suspected. She could not stay there and 
meet Jimmie Carleton face to face after what she had 
hoard, while a return to the lonely cottage seemed im* 
possible. Widow Simms’s home suggested itself to he? 
mind; but if the prisoners were exchanged, and Isaac 
came home, she might be an intruder there, and besides, 
what truthful reason could she give to Rose for her strange 
conduct ? It was a sad dilemma in which Annie found 
herself so suddenly placed, and more than an hour of 
solitary and prayerful reflection, found her still unoer- 
tain as to the course duty would dictate in the present 
emergency. It seemed expedient that she should go 
away, and when in the evening she joined Rose, who 
chanced to be alone, she suggested leaving her house, at 
ieast during Jimmie’s stay, and going either to the cot- 
tage in the Hollow, or to stay with Widow Simms. 

In the utmost astonishment Rose listened to the pro- 
posal, and then replied: 

“ You go away because Jimmie is coming I Preposter- 
ous I Why, I want you here on his account, if nothing 
more. Besides, where will you go ? Widow Simms 
has taken Susan to live with her at John’s request, and 
that little feenf^ place will not begin to hold three women 
with hoops /” 

“ You forget the widow does not wear them,’* Annie 
suggested, her heart beginning to sink, notwithstanding 
her playful words. 

“ Yes, I know,” Rose replied ; “ but you are not going 
there. If you are in the way here with Jimmie, you’d 
surely be more in the way there with Isaac. Don’t y 5^ 
see?” and Rose looked as if this argument were altf 
gether conclusive. 


NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE. 18> 

** I can go home,” Annie said, faintly. “ The cottage 
is mine till the first of April.” 

Rose colored, and hesitated somewhat, as if a httle 
uncertain how what she had to say on this subject might 
be received; then, resolving to put a bold face upon it, 
Bhe said: 

“ I ought to have told you before, I suppose. Don’t 
you remember the day you had the sick headache, more 
than a week ago ? Well, while you were asleep, a man 
came to know if you’d let him into the cottage till spiing, 
as he was obliged to leave where he was, and could find 
no other place. I did not wish to wake you, and as I 
knew you would not care, I said yes on my own respon- 
sibility, and sent Bridget down to pack all your things 
in the chamber, as he only wanted the lower rooms. 
She put them away real carefully, Bridget did, for I’ve 
been myself to see,” Bose added, quickly, as she saw the 
color mounting to Annie’s cheeks, and feared she might 
be indignant at the liberty. 

“ And is he there ?” Annie asked, conquering all emo- 
tion, and speaking in her natural tone. 

“Yes, he’s there,” Bose answered. “You are not 
angry, are you ? He’s a nice man, and so is his wife.” 

“ I am not angry,” Annie replied, “ but more sorry 
than I can express, though, had I been consulted, I 
ehould undoubtedly have done as you did.” 

“ Oh, I’m so glad, for it has bothered me a heap, won- 
dering what you’d say !” Rose cried, throwing her arms 
around Annie’s neck. “And now you’ll stay with us, 
tor you see you have nowhere else to go ; shan’t she, 
mother ?” and she appealed to IVIrs. Carleton, who had 
Just come in. 

“.Of course Mrs. Graham will stay ” was Mrs. Carle- 
ton’s reply; for, during the few days of her sojourn al 


m 


ROSE MATHER. 


Rockland, she had become greatly interested in th« 
sweet yoimg Annie, and already fore8a^\ the benefit she 
would be to Rose, who needed some such influence U 
keep her in check- 

Mrs. Carleton w^as proud, and at first her daughter’s grow 
Lng intimacy with the wife of a mechanic had given her 
pride a pang, but a closer acquaintance had dispelled the 
foolish prejudice, for she saw in the gentle Annie unmis- 
takable marks of education and refinement, while she was 
not insensible to the charm thro'svn ix)und the beautiful 
stranger by the lovely Christian character which shone 
so brightly now in the dark hour of aflliction. Coming 
nearer to her, and laying her hand in a motherly way 
upon her pale brown hair, she said : 

We all want you, Mrs. Graliam, and as Rose, by an 
act which I will admit was too presuming, has virtually 
closed your own doors against you, I see no alternative 
but for you to stay with us. Rose needs you, and as 
she says, you may do Jimmie good, while Tom, if he ever 
comes, will be glad to meet the wife of one in whom he 
was greatly interested.” 

After this, Annie offerfd no further remonstrance, 
though in her heaid she hoped Jimmie’s residence in 
Rockland would not be very long. Of Tom she had no 
dread. She rather wished to see him than otherwise, 
for he had been kind, to George, and in fancy she had 
enshrined him as a middle-aged, greyish-haired man, 
stooping a little, perhaps, and withal very fatherly and 
venerable in his appearance ! This was 2bm , — but Jim- 
mie, handsome, saucy-eyed, mischievous Jimmie, putting 
angle worms in Rose’s bosom, and frightening the hitli 
Pequot with a mud-turtle, found on New London beacih, 
was a very different thing, and though trusting much be 


THE CONFEDERAlis dOLDIEB S WEMCOMB. 191 

kbe lapse of years and change of name, Annie shrank 
nervously from the dreaded to-morrow, which was to 
bring the Bebel home. 


CHAPTER XVn. 



TBDB OONTEDERATE SOLDIKr’s WHLOOMB TO ROOILAirD 

j^OSE had fretted herself into a headache, and as 
Mrs. Carleton could not think of meeting her 
returning prodigal in the presence of strangers, 
there was no one to go up to meet him unless Annie 
should consent to do so I But greatly to Rose’s disap- 
pointment Annie obstinately refused, while ^Irs. Carle- 
ton, too, said it would not be proper for Mrs. Graham to 
go alone and meet a stranger whom she had never seen. 

“Couldn’t she tell him she was Annie, my adopted 
sister?” Rose S£dd, half poutingly. “What wiU he 
think when he finds nobody there but Jake, who, I verily 
believe, looks upon him as half a savage for having joined 
the Southern army ? I heard him, myself, teU Bridget 
that Ben Arnold was coming to-day, meaning that horrid 
traitor that gave up Yorktoum, or something,” and hav- 
ing thus betrayed her ignorance of Revolutionary his- 
tory, Rose bathed her aching head in eau-de-cologne, 
and lay back upon her piUows, wondering what Jimmie 
would say, and how he would manage to brave the gap- 
ing people who were sure to stare at him as if he were 
gome monster. She hoped there would not be maxiy 
there, and of course there wouldn’t, for who knew ol 
eared for Jimmie’s coming ? 


192 


BOSE MATHEIL 


More cared for Jimmie’s coming than Bose suspeoir 
ed, and the streets were full of men and boys of a 
certain class, hastening to the depot to see the Kebel, as 
they persisted in calling him, in spite of Billy Baker’s 
repeated suggestions that they soften it down somewhat 
Dy prefixing the word “ reformed** Bill was very busy, 
rery important, very consequential that day, and quite 
inclined to be very patronizing, and do the agreeable to 
the man he had captured at Manassas. “Folks or’to 
overlook him,” he said, “ and treat him half way decent, 
for the best was apt to stumble, and there should neithei 
be hootin’ nor hissin’, if he could help it.” 

Indeed, so impressed was Bill with the idea that the 
responsibility of Jimmie’s reception was pending upon 
himself, that he deliberately knocked down two of the 
ringleaders, who announced their intention to hoot and 
to hiss as much as they pleased. Bill’s warlike propensi- 
ties were pretty generally understood in Rockland, and 
this energetic demonstration had the effect of quelling, 
to a certain extent, the Babel which would otherwise 
have reigned, when at last the train stopped before 
the depot, and the expected lion ap];)eared upon the 
platform, his identity proven by BiU, who whispered, 
“That’s him, with the rowdy hat, — that’s the chap;” 
then, with a proud air of self-assurance, he stepped for- 
ward and offered his hand to the embarrassed stranger, 
who was looking this way and that, in quest of a familiar 
face. 

“ Halloo, Corporal 1” he called out with the utmost 
sang froid^ “ you re-cop^-nize me, I s’pose. I’m the critter 
that took you in the Virginny woods. I’ve gin aU them 
cx}utraband8 to your sister. Miss Marthers. She and 1 
has got to be considerable intimate. I think a sight on 
her,” he continued, as Jimmie showed no signs of recip- 


THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS U^ELCOMB. 198 

rocating tlie coarso familiarity other than by rather 
haughtily offering his hand. 

But Bill was not to be put down, for “ wasn't he as 
good as Corponil Carleton ? hadn’t they sustained to 
each other the relation of captor and captive, and if there 
were any preference, wasn’t it in his favor ?” He thought 
80, and nothing abashed by Jimmie’s evident disgust, he 
was about announcing to him that a carriage was in 
waiting, when Jake made his w'ay through the crowd to 
the spot where Jimmie stood- The sight of him sug- 
gested a new Mea to Bill, and bowing first to one and 
then to the other, he said, “Ah, IVIr. Jacob Sulhvan, al- 
low me to introduce you to my friend, Corporal Carleton, 
late of the Confederate army, supposed to be fitin’ for 
just such goods and chattels as you.” 

The African’s teetn were plainly visible at this novel 
introduction, while the good-humored smile which broke 
over the hitherto cold, haughty features of the stranger, 
changed into a general laugh the muttered groans and 
imprecations which the words “ Confederate Army,” had 
provoked. It was strange what a difference that smile 
made in the looks of Jimmie’s handsome face, removing 
its haughty, sarcastic expression, and softening to a great 
ex.ont the feelings of the crowd, many of whom instinc- 
tively dropped the brick-bats, stones, and bits of frozen 
mud, with which they were prepared to pelt the Hebei’s 
caniage so soon as they should be in the rear. Still 
they must have some fun, even if it were at Bill’s expense, 
and just as the latter was button-holing the persecuted 
Jimmie, and escorting him to the carriage, one, more 
daring than the others, proposed “ three groans and i\ 
tiger for the deserter.” 

Instantly, hats, caps, and fists were flourished aloft, 
and the air resounded with the most direful sounds im- 


9 


194 


HOSE MATHER 


aginable, aa groan after groan came heading up from tha 
leathern lungs of the crowd. With a fierce gesture 
impatience Jimmie turned upon them, his black ej ss 
flashing fire at what he deemed an insult offered to him- 
self. Whatever his faults had been, desertion w^as nol 
nmong the number, and he was about to say so, when 
Bill, with imperturbable gravity, whispered to him, 
“They don’t mean you now, Corporal. It’s me they’re 
hittin’ a dig. You see, I did leave Washington in a 
hurry. Don’t mind ’em an atom; they’re the off- 
Bcourin’s of the town,” and having piloted Jimmie safe- 
ly to the carriage door, Bill took off his own cap, and 
swinging it around his head, shouted aloud, “Three 
cheers for Corporal Carleton I” 

For an instant there was a silence, the crowd a little 
nncertain as to how far their loyalty might be impeached 
by cheering for a Kebel ; but when the dark, handsome 
face, with its winning smile, was again turned toward 
them, and they saw in it a strong resemblance to the 
patriotic little lady whom even the lowest of them had 
learned to regard with respect, their doubts were given 
to the winds, and the ringleader, who carried in his 
pocket a quantity of questionable eggs, designed for 
use as the occasion might require, led off the cheers, 
making the depot ring with the loud huzzas, interlarded 
here and there by a groan or hiss from those not yet 
won over to the popular party. 

Lifting his hat gracefully, Jimmie bowed an acknow- 
ledgment, and his bps moved as if about to speak, while 
cries of “Hear, hear!” “Give us a speech,’” “LetTi 
have your politics 1” ran through the excited throng. 
Standing close to Jimmie, who would fain have dispensed 
with his suggestive presence. Bill whispered in nis ear, 
“ Let ’er slide, Cop’ral Go in strong for Dncic ii 


THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIER's WELCOME. 19ft 


yon don’t want this new coat of yourn sp’ilt. There 
ain’t a rotten hen’s nest in town but what was robbed 
this mornin’ on your account, and if they once git fairh 
to work, it’ll take mor’n me and Mr. Sullivan to stop 
emi Pitch in, then, to yoiu* sarmon.” 

Jimmie’s natural disposition prompted him to brave 
the purloined contents of Kockland’s hen’s nests, but he 
would not endanger his sister’s carriage, and besides that, 
he felt that submission to people so infinitely beneath 
him was a part of his merited punishment; so, forcing 
down his pride, he in a few well-chosen words, told his 
oreathless audience that though he had once proved 
faithless to his country, none regretted it more than 
himself, or was now a firmer friend to the Stars and 
Stripes, the brief speech ending with the proposal ol 
three cheers for the Star Spangled Banner. 

In a trice the whole crowd responded with might and 
main, prolonging their yells with the cries of “ Carleton I 
Carleton forever I” and promises to make him police 
justice in the spring, should he want to run for that very 
agreeable office I 

“Couldn’t of done much better myself,” said the de- 
lighted Bill, hovering about the window of the carriage 
in which Jimmie had now taken his seat. 

Thoroughly tired of the scene, Jimmie intimated to 
Jake his wish to go home, and the iron greys sprang 
quickly forward, but not until Jimmie had caught Bill’s 
parting words, “ Call round and see a feller, won’t you ? 
ni show you the old gaL You knew you asked me 

about her in liie Virginny woods.” 

:^ * * * * * 

It seemed like a new world to Jimmie when, after they 
had left the noisy crowd, they turned into the pleasant, 
quiii street which wound up the hill to where the hand* 


196 


ROSE MATHER, 


some Matlier mansion stood, every blind tlii’own baci 
and wreatbs of smoke curling gracefully from every chim* 
ney, for Kose, wishing to do something in honor of hei 
brother’s return, had ordered the whole house to be 
opened as if for a holiday, while every flower which could 
possibly be spared from her conservatory, had beei 
broken from its stem, and fashioned into bouquets by 
Annie’s tasteful hands. 

“Wouldn’t it be si)lendid,” Kose said, as she lay watch- 
ing Annie at her task, “wouldn’t it be splendid to hang 
the Stars and Stripes in festoons across the haU, where 
Jimmie will pass under them ?” 

Annie did not think it would. In her opinion Jim- 
mie was not deserving of such honor, and she said so, as 
delicately as possible, adding that “ were it Tom it woula 
be a very different thing.” 

Kose knew that Annie was right, and so the Stars and 
Stripes were not brought out to welcome the young man 
now rapidly approaching. Annie was the first to catch 
the sound of the carriage wheels, and when Kose turned 
to ask if she really supposed Jimmie was there, she 
found herself alone. 

“ She’s gone to meet him, of course,” she said, “ but I 
most wish she had staid here, for I wanted to introduce 
her myself. I hope she won’t dishke him.” 

Meantime in the parlor below, Mrs. Carleton sat wait- 
ing for her boy, — not as Spartan mothers were wont to 
wait for their sons returning from the war, but with a 
yearning tenderness for the loved prodigal, blended with 
loyal indignation for his sin. He was not coming to hei 
as a hero who had done what he could for his country, 
but with a traitor’s stain upon his fair name, which she 
would gladly have wiped out. She heard the carriage ae 
it stopped, and heard the step on the piazza, not rapid 


THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIER’s WELCOME- 191 

And bounding as it used to be, but slow and heavy; os il 
uncertain which way to turn. 

“ I must go out to meet him,” she said, but all hei 
strength forsook her, and sinking upon the sofa, shf 
could only call out faintly, “Jimmie, my boy.” 

He heard her, and almost before the words had left het 
lips her Jimmie boy was kneeling at her feet, with his face 
buried for an instant in her lap; then, with one burning 
kiss upon her forehead, the proud James Carleton, who 
in his early boyhood was scarcely ever known to acknow- 
ledge that he was wrong, asked to be forgiven and 
restored again to the confidence and love he had for 
feited, and with her hand upon his bowed head, the 
mother forgave her boy, bidding him look up, that she 
might see again the face she had once thought so hand- 
some. It was tear-stained now, and worn, and Mi’S. 
Carleton sighed as she detected upon it unmistakable 
marks of reckless dissipation. Still it was Jimmie’s face, 
and it grew each moment more natural as the flush of 
excitement deepened on the cheeks, and lent an added 
brightness to the saucy, laughing eyes. The lines upon the 
forehead and about the mouth would w^ear away in time, 
Mrs. Carleton hoped, and parting the soft, black curls 
clustering around the broad, white bix)w, she told him 
why Rose was not there to meet him, and asked if he 
would go up then to see her. 

Rose heard them coming, and at the sound of the 
familiar voice calling her name, the tears flowed in tor- 
rents, and with her face buiied in her pillows she re- 
ceived her brothers first embrace. Very gently he 
lifted up her head, and taking in his the Httle hot hands, 
kissed again and again her childish face, and wiping hei 
tears away, asked, half seriously, half playfully, '' if they 
met in peace or war ?” 


198 


ROSE MATHER. 


“OL, in peace, in peace!” Kose ansrvered, and ^ind 
ing her arms around his neck, she hugged and cried ovei 
him, asking why he had been so naughty, when he kne'R 
how badly they would feel, and why he had not inter- 
fered to save poor Tom from a prisoner’s fate. 

lie explained to her how that was impossible, but foi 
bis treachery he had no excuse; he could only answei 
that he was sorry, and ask again to be forgiven. 

I do not now believe the South aU wrong,* he said. 
“Many of them sincerely think they are fighting for their 
firesides; others hardly know what they are fighting for; 
while others again are impressed into the army and can- 
not help themselves. As for me, I would gladly blot out 
the past, for which I have no apology; but as that can- 
not be, I would rather talk as little of it as possible. 
Try, Kose, to forget that you ever had a rebel brother 
Will you ?” 

Kose’s kisses were a sufficient answer. She was too 
happy just then to remember aught save that he had al- 
ways been the dearest brother imaginable; besides that 
Annie taught that we must forgive as we would be for- 
given. Annie bore no ill will toward the South. She 
prayed for them as weU as for the North, and cried most 
as hard over the sick, suffering soldiers captured by our 
army as over our own prisoners, and if she could forgive. 
Rose surely ought to do so too. 

“You have not seen Annie yet,” she said; “she ran 
away the moment she knew you had come. I though 
she might be going to meet you, but it seems she did 
not. You must love her a hcaj), and I know you will. 
She’s so beautiful in her mourning, and bears her trou- 
ble so sweetly. I wish everybody was as good as Annie 
Graham. She has never been heard to sav one bittei 


THE CONTEDEKATE SOLDIER’S WELCOME 199 

khing against the South. She only pities ind prays 
and says they are misguided.” 

“And pray, who is this paragon of excellence that 1 
must love a heap?” Jimmie asked, when Rose had ex* 
hausted the list of Annie’s virtues, and paused for a httl 
breath. 

“Who was she? Hadn’t he heard of Annie? Had 
Wm failed to tell him of her adopted sister?” Rose 
asked in some astonishment. 

Will had proved remiss in that one particular duty, 
and never, until this moment, had Jimmie heard that 
Rose had an adopted sister; and if RosCy why not him- 
self ? Wasn’t he Rose’s brother ? 

“Certainly you are,” Rose replied; “but I’m not sure 
Annie will let you call her sister, because you’re, — you’re, 
— well, you see, Annie is real good, and, as I told 
you, prays, just as hard for Southern soldiers as for ours, 
that is, prays that they may be Christians, and that their 
sick and wounded may be kindly cared for, but of course 
she wants us to beat, and knows we shall, but I guess 
she does not think of you just as she does of Tom, 
though she never saw either. She would not go up to 
the depot to meet you, and I wanted her to so much. 
She said, too, it was not good taste, or something like 
that, to hang out our banner on a Rebel’s account, and 
she acts so funny generally about your coming home 
that I hope you’ll do your best to be agreeable, and 
make her like you. Will you Jimmie ?” and Rose looked 
up at her brother in such a comical, serious way, that he 
laughed aloud, promising to do his best to remove all 
prejudice from Jliss Graham’s mind, and asking who she 
was and where she came fi'oin.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know where she came from,” Ros< 
rephed, a little uncertain how to grapple with the Cju W 


20U 


ROSE MATHER 


ton pride, which existed in Jimmie as well as the rest oi 
them. “ She’s a lady, as any one can see, and possessed ol 
as much refinement as we often find in Boston. She 
can’t help it, Jimmie, if she is poor. It don’t hurt hei 
>ne bit, and I’m getting over those foolish notions 
cherished by our set at home. Will says she came of a 
good family and might have married a millionnaire, old 
enough to be her father, but she wouldn’t. She pre- 
ferred a mechanic, George Graham, the most splendid 
looking man you ever saw. He’s dead now, poor fellow. 
Will took care of him, and brought him home; that’s 
why Annie hves with me.” 

Rose’s explanations were not the plainest that could 
have been given, but Jimmie extracted from the medley 
of facts a very prominent one. It was not a 3Tiss but a 
Mrs., to whom he was to be agreeable. It had not 
seemed a very unpleasant duty to change a beautiful 
young gill’s opinion of himself, but a Mrs. was a very 
different affair, and for the first time since his arrival his 
old, merry, half-sarcastic laugh rang through the room, 
as with a mocking whistle, he said, 

“A widow, hey ! How many children does she boast?” 

“Not a single bit of a one,” Rose answered, feehng 
that Jimmie had said something very bad of Annie. 

He saw it in her coimtenance, and hastened to make 
amends by asking numberless questions about Annie, 
whose history from the time of Rose’s first acquaintance 
with her up to the present hour, he managed at last to 
gel, the result being that he was not as much interested 
ID the Widow Graham, as he mischievously called her, 
as he might have been in 3Iiss Annie. The easily dis 
heartened Rose gave him up as in corrigible, and men- 
tally hoping Tom would not j^rove as refractory as Jim- 
mie had done, she turned the conversation upon Will 


THE COKFEDERATE SOLDIER’s WELCOME. 201 


rhose goodness she extolled until the supper bell rang 
and Jimmie arose to leave her for a time, as she was not 
prepared to go down that night and do the honors oi 
the table. 


The gas was lighted in the dining-room, and the heavy 
damask curtains were dropped before the long French 
windows. A cheerful coal fire was blazing on the mar- 
ble hearth, while the table, with its snowy linen, its 
china, silver and cut glass, presented a most in'V'iting 
appearance, making Jimmie feel more at home than he 
had through all the long years of his voluntary exile 
from the parental roof. 

“ This is nice,” he said, with a pleasant feeling of sat- 
isfaction not unmingled with a certain degree of self-re- 
proach, which whispered that after what had passed he 
was hardly worthy to be the recipient of so much lux- 
ury. 

Thoughts like these were about shaping themselves 
into words, when he caught sight of a figure be had not 
before observed, and became aware that he was noi alone 
with his mother, as he at first supposed. It was a deli- 
cate little figure, not as petite as his sister’s but quite as 
graceful, with its sloping shoulders and rounded waist, 
almost too small to suit the theorems of a Water Cure, 
but looking vastly well to Jimmie, whose first thought 
was that he could span it with his hands. Around the 
weU shaped head the heavy bands of pale brown hair 
were coiled, forming a large square knot which, falling 
low upon the neck, gave to the figure a more gii-lish ap- 
pearance than Junmie had expected to find in his sister’s 
protegee, the Widow Graham. He knew it was Annie, by 
the mourning robe fitting so closely around the slendoi 

0 * 


202 


ROSE MATHER 


throat, and for an, instant he wished she were not there 
as he preferred being alone with his mother. But one 
glance at the sweet face turned toward him as Mrs. Carls' 
ton repeated his name, dispelled aU such desires, and 
Mth a strange sensation, which he attributed to pleasant 
iisappointment, he took the soft, white hand which 
Annie extended toward him. It was a very small, a very 
pretty hand, and trembled perceptibly as it lay in Jim- 
mie’s broader, warmer one, while on the pale cheek there 
was a deep, rich bloom, which Mrs. Carleton herself had 
never observed before. 

“ I have heard of IVIrs. Graham from my sister,” Jim- 
mie said, bowing to her with his usual gallantry, while 
Annie tried to stammer out some reply, making a miser- 
able failure, and leaving on Jimmie’s mind the impres- 
sion that she was prejudiced against him, and so would 
not welcome him home. 

A dozen times in the course of the supper Jimmie as- 
sured himself that he did not care what was the opinion 
held of him by such as Annie Graham, while he as often 
changed his mind and knew that he did care, wondering 
what it was about her face which puzzled him so much 
She looked a Httle hke Tom’s wife, Mary, he thought, 
that is, as Mary had looked just before her departure for 
Charleston, when she bade him good bye, whispering to 
him timidly of a world where she hoped to meet again 
the friends she loved so well. And as, whenever he 
thought of Mary, he felt that her angel presence was 
around him still, he now felt that another angel spirit 
looked out at him from the soft eyes of blue raised to his 
so seldom, and when raised withdrawn so quickly 
Wl^at did she think of him? He would have given 
something to have known, but he was far from suspect- 
ing the truth or guessing what Annie felt, as she saw 


THE CONEEDERATE SOLDEER’s WELCOME. 20b 

apon his face the lines of dissipation, and thought of th« 
debasing scenes through which he must have passed 
since the days of auld lang syne, when, with the little 
Pequot of New London, he sat upon the rocks and 
watched the tide come in, telling her how, on the mor 
row night, his own fanciful little boat, named for hei 
should bear them across the placid waters of the bay to 
where the green hiU lay sleeping in the summer moon- 
light. The Pequot’s reply had been that the morrow 
was the Sabbath, and not even the pleasure of a sail with 
him could tempt her to steal God’s time, and appi^opri- 
ate it to such a purpose. He had called her a little Pu- 
ritan then, asking where she learned so strict a creed, 
and adding, “ but I half believe you’re right, and if I’d 
known you sooner I should have been a better boy;” 
then kissing her blushing cheek, he had led her from 
the rocks over which the waves were breaking now, and 
that was the last the Pequot ever saw of him. There 
was no sail upon the bay, no more watching for the ebb 
and how of the evening tide, no walks on the long piazza, 
or strolls upon the beach, nothing but new^s one night 
that the handsome, saucy-eyed boy was gone to his home 
in Boston, leaving no message or word of explanation 
for her, the little Pequot, whose step was slower for a 
ftiw days, and whose headache was not feigned, as the 
harsh aunt said it was, when she refused to join the rev- 
ellers in the parlor, and dance with the grey-haired man 
four times her age, who sought her for his partner 
I'hey had not met since then IQI now, and Annie strug- 
gled hard to keep back the tears as she remembered all 
that bad come to her since that summer at New London 
—remembered the childish fancy which died out so fast, 
and the later love which crowned her early girlhood, 
tinding iU full fruition at the marriage altar and twin- 


204 


ROSE MATHER 


iiig itself so closely aroniid the fibres of her heart, that 
when it was tom away, it left them sore and bleeding 
with pain at every pore. 

Surely, with this sad experience, Annie, young and 
beautiful though she was, could feel for Jimmie Carleton 
naught save the deference she would have felt for any 
stranger who came to her as the brother of her patron- 
ess. And still she was conscious of a deeper interest in 
him than if he had been a perfect stranger, and his pres- 
ence awoke within her an uncomfortable feeling, making 
her wish more and more that she was away where she 
would not be obliged to come in daily contact with him 
Under these circumstances it is not strange the conversa- 
tion flagged, until for Rose’s sake Annie felt compelled 
to make an effort. Suddenly remembering Isaac Simms, 
she asked if anything was ever heard at Washington ol 
the Richmond prisoners ? 

“Yes,” Jimmie replied; and eager to show his own 
willingness to talk of the war and the Federal Army, he 
told how only the day before he left for Rockland, news 
had come from Tom, saying he was well as could be ex- 
pected, considering his fare, but the boy cai^tured wath 
him would surely die if not soon restored to purer air 
and better care than those tobacco prisons afforded. 

“ Oh, — it will kill iMrs. Simms if they should Dring 
him back to her dead,” and the hot tears gushed from 
A-nnie’s eyes as she heard in fancy the muffled drum 
boating its funeral marches to the grave of another Rock- 
land volunteer. 

The tears once started could not be repressed, and 
Mrs. Carleton and Jimmie finished their supper alone, 
for An n ie excused herself, and hastening to her room, 
Doured out her grief in tears and prayers for the pool 
uick boy, pining in his dreary prison hom«, while min 


THE CONFEDERATE SOLDI ER'S WELCOME. 206 


gled with her tears was a note of thanksgiving that to 
her had been given the comfort of knowing that tl e death 
pillow of her darling was smoothed with friendlj hands, 
and that no harsh, discordant sounds of prison riot oi 
discipline had disturbed his peaceful dying. 

Meantime Jimmie had returned to his sister, whose 
first question was for Annie. “What did he think ol 
her? Wasn’t she sweet, and hadn’t she the prettiest 
blue eyes he ever saw ?” 

“ I hardly saw them, for she is evidently coy of her 
glances at a Rebel,'* Jimmie answered, half playfully, hall 
bitterly, for Annie’s manner of quiet reserve had piqued 
him more than he cared to confess, 

“She’s bashful,” Rose replied; “and then, Jimmie, 
you can’t expect her to forgive you as readdy as youi 
own sister, for you know she never saw you till to-night, 
and she’s a true patriot; but say, did you ever see so 
sweet a face — one that made you think so much of an 
angel ?” 

“ Rather too pale to suit my taste. I like high color 
better,” and Jimmie pinched Rose’s glowing cheek until 
she screamed for him to stop. 

“ It’s all going wrong, I know,” Rose began, poutingly. 
“You don’t like Annie a bit, and she’s so good, too. 
You can’t begin to guess how good. And there’s nothing 
blue about her, either. WTiy, she’s a heap more cheerful 
than I could be if Will were dead, as George is. I’d die 
too, — I know I should; but Annie’s a real Christian, and 
that does make a difference. It seems to bo all through 
her, and she lives it every minute. I honestly believe 
I’m better than before she came. She has actually per- 
suaded me not to get up big dinners on Sunday, as 1 
used to do, but to let aU the servants go to church, and 
every night she goes for half an hour into the kitchen. 


206 


ROSE MATHER. 


and teaches old black Phillis how to read the Bible 
She’s so truthfal, too. Why, she said she presumed thai 
little Pequot girl would not have liked you any way aftei 
fhe heard that Dick Lee was not your name.” 

“ The Pequot girl I How came Mrs. Graham to heai 
'jf her ?” Jimmie asked, his face flushing crimson. 

“ Oh, I happened to ask mother something about heJ 
one day, right before Annie, and so, of course, explained 
a hfctle. It would not have been polite if I hadn't,” 
Rose rephed, adding, as she saw her brother’s evident 
chagrin, “you need not mind one bit, for Annie never 
tells anything.” 

It was not the fearing she would tell which affected 
Jimmie unpleasantly; it was the feeling that he would 
rather Annie Graham should not know of aU his delin- 
quencies, and so despise him accordingly. How unfor- 
tunate it was that she was there, and yet he would not 
have sent her away if he could, though he did wish she 
were not so weU posted with regard to his affairs, both 
past and present. WTiat made Rose teU her of the 
Pequot, and why had the Pequot haunted him ever since 
he came into that house ? Something had brought her 
to his mind, and as the servant just then came in, bring- 
ing her mistress’s supper, he left his seat by Rose, and 
walking to the window looked out upon the starry sky, 
wondering within himseK where she was now, the little 
girl whc had sat with him upon the rocks, and told him 
it was wicked to break God’s fourth command. The 
acene which Annie saw at the supper tablo was present 
with him now, remembered, for the first time, since the 
battle at Bull Run. Then, as he lay waiting for the foe, 
he had in fancy heard again a sweet, girHsh voice, bid- 
ding him keep holy the Sabbath day, and the tifvir which 
dropped up^n his gu"! was prompted by the 'ught o/ 


THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIER'S WELCOME. 2(ft 


•D he had passed through since the happy school* boj 
days when the Pequot preached to him her gentla 
•ormons. 

In the hall there was a rapid footstep, and Rose called 
eut: 

** Annie, Annie, come here. Why, where are you going 
lo-night?” she continued, in much surprise, as Annie 
looked in, hooded and shawled as for some expedition. 

“ Going to see Mrs. Simms. It is not far, you know,** 
was Annie’s answer, and the door closed after her in 
time to prevent her hearing Rose’s reply. 

“It’s dark as pitch, and slippery too. Jimmie, do 
please see her to the gate, but don’t go in, for the widow 
IS awful against Rebels 1” 

The next moment Jimmie was half way down the 
stairs, calling to Annie, who held the door-knob in hex 
hand. 

“ Mrs. Graham, allow me to be your escort, — Rose is 
not willing you should go out alone.” 

“ Thank you, I am not at all afraid, and prefer going 
alone, as Mrs. Simms might not care to meet a stranger,” 
Annie replied, with an air of so much quiet dignity, that 
Jimmie knew there was no alternative for him save to 
return to his sister’s chamber, which he did, feeling far 
more crestfallen than he had supposed it possible for 
him to feel, just because a widow had refused his escort. 

It was wholly owing to the taint of Rebeldom clinging 
to him, he knew, for he was not accustomed to having 
his at mentions thus slighted by the ladies to whom they 
were offered, and aU unconsciously the manner of reserve 
which Annie assumed toward him was punishing him for 
his sin quite as much as anything which had yet occurred; 
making him feel keenly that by his traitorous act hf 


208 


ROSE MATHER 


nud, for a time at least, built a gulf betweeu himself auJ 
those x' hose good opinion was worth the having. 

** Vklij haven’t you gone ?” Rose asked, as he came inte 
the room. “ She wouldn’t let you ? I don’t believe yoi: 
asked her just as you should. Dear, dear, it’s all going 
wrong between you two, and if Tom don’t act any bet- 
ter when he comes home, what shall I do ?” 

“ Send Mrs. Graham away,” trembled on Jimmie’s lips, 
but knowing, from what he had seen, that so far as Rosa 
was concerned, Annie’s tenure at the Mather mansion 
was stronger than his own, he wisely kept silent, and 
sitting down by the open grate, he went off* into a fit ol 
abstraction, mingled with sad regrets for the past and 
occasional thoughts of the little white-faced Annie, now 
essaying to comfort the Widow Simms, who had extorted 
from her the intelligence brought by Jimmie of her boy, 
and who, with her hard hands covering her face, was 
weeping bitterly, and sobbing amid her tears, 

“ My poor, poor boy I It’s the same to me now as if 
he was dead. I’ll never see him any more. Oh, Isaac, 
my darling 1” 


CHAPTER XVm. 



THE EICHMOND CAPTIVES. 

OW close, and dirty, and terrible it was on that 
third floor of the dingy tobacco house, where 
Isaac, as a private, was first confined, and as the 
summer days glided by and the August sun came pour- 
ing into the great, disorderly room, how the young boy 
panted and pined for a breath of sweet, pure air, such ai 
swept over the far-off Eastern hills, and how full of wist* 


THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES. 


20 £ 


fol yearning were the glances he cast toward the grated 
windows, seeking to catch glimpses of the busy world 
without, in which he could not mingle. Not very nuai 
Uiose windows did he dare approach, for more than out 
had already paid the penalty of such transgression, aii« 
in his dreams, Isaac saw yet the white death agony which 
itole over the face of the Fire Zouave shot by the in- 
human guard while looking from the window. 

No wonder that the homesick boy grew sadder, wea- 
rier each day amid such horrors as these, praying, some- 
times, that he might die, even though he must be buried 
far from the quiet Kockland churchyard, where the cy- 
press and the willow were growing so green and fair, 
and where a mother could sometimes come and weep 
over her soldier boy’s grave. It would matter little 
where he slept, he thought, or what indignities were 
heaped upon his lifeless form, for his soul could not be 
touched; that would be safe with Him, whom Isaac, in 
kis captivity, had found to be indeed the Friend which 
sticketh closer than a brother. The Saviour, honored 
since early childhood^ did not desert the captive, and 
this it was which made him strong to bear, through the 
long summer days, during which there came to him no 
tidings of his home, and his eye was greeted with no 
sight of a familiar face, for Captain Carleton was yet an 
inmate of the hospital. Neither did any friendly message 
come to teU he was remembered by the man whose for- 
tunes he had voluntarily shaied, when he might, perhaps, 
have escaped, for though Tom thought often of the gen- 
erous lad, and sent to him many a word of comfort 
through mistake or negligence only one brief messagt 
had ever reached its destination, and so forsaken bj 
every human aid, poor Isaac looked to Heaven for help 


210 


ROSE MATHER 


finding there a peace which kept his heart from break 
ing. 

But as the summer days glided into September, and 
the heat grew more and more intense, until at last Sep 
bember, too, was gone, and the Virginia woods were blazing 
.n the light of the October sun, and still there was no 
token of relief, oh 1 who, save those who have felt it, can 
tell of the loneliness, the dreary despair, which crept into 
the captive’s soul, driving out all hope, and making life 
as it existed in those walls a burden, which would be 
gladly shaken off. How Isaac paled and drooped as the 
weary hours stole on ; how he loathed the sickening 
food; and how at night he shuddered with horror, and 
shrank away from the vermin -covered floor, his only pil- 
low unless he substituted the coat, now scarcely less 
filthy than its surroundings ! As Tom wrote to the New 
Hampshire woman, Mrs. Simms would scarcely have re- 
cognized her son in the haggard, emaciated boy, who, 
on one October afternoon, sat crouching in his comer, 
grasping the little Testament given by the Rockland 
ladies, and repeating its precious truths to the poor, 
sick, worn-out youth, whose head lay on his lap, and 
whose eyes, blistered with homesick tears, were fastened 
with a kind of hungry wistfulness upon the girlish face 
above him, the face of Isaac Simms, pointing the dying 
soldier to the only source of life. It was thus Tom 
Carleton found him, Tom, just released from the hospi 
iai, and transferred to the first floor of that dark prison. 

With Tom it had fared better, for Yankee-like in hii 
precautions, he had gone into the battle with a quantity 
of gold fastened securely around his person, and gold has 
a mighty power to unlock the hardest heart. As a com 
missioned officer, and a man of wealth and rank, many 
privileges were accorded to him which were denied thf 


THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES. 


211 


oommon soldiers, and his first act after entering the 
tobacco house was to seek out his late companion and 
ask after his welfare. He did not know him at first 
though directed to that locality as the one whore th« 
* Pre(whx’.r'* would probably be found. He could not 
think he had ever seen either of these famished, misera 
ble looking creatures, but touched by the impressive 
scene, he stood a moment listening, while Isaac read, 

“ I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man com- 
eth to the Father but by me.” 

“ Yes, but how shall I go to Him? Where is He?” the 
sick boy asked, and bending lower, Isaac answered : 

“ He’s here. He’s standing close by you. He hears 
all I say. He knows you want him, and he will not cast 
you off, for he has said he wouldn’t. Only believe, and 
take him at his word, that’s aU.” 

There was an evident lifting up of both souls to God, 
and Tom felt that even in that horrid place, there were 
angels dwelling. He knew now that one was Isaac, and 
the great tears rolled down his cheeks as he saw the 
fearful change wrought in little more than two short 
months. 

“Isaac,” he said, softly, “Isaac, my boy, don’t you 
know me ?” 

Not tiU then had Isaac observed the taU figure stand- 
ing near, but at the sound of the well-remembered voice 
he looked quickly up, and putting gently from him the 
head of his comrade, sprang to his feet with a scream ol 
joy, and threw himself into the open arms of Tom, wh( 
held and soothed him, while he sobbed out his delight. 

“ Oh, Captain Carleton I” he cried, his body quivering 
with emotion, ‘ I am so glad I I thought you had, — I 
didn’t know, — Oh, why haven’t you come before. I'm sc 
lick, so sick and tired, that I almost want to die 1 Will 


12 


BOSE MATHER. 


we ever be exchanged; have they forgotten us at Wash* 
ington ? Shall we never go home again?” 

These were questions which more than one poor captfvi 
had asked, and which none could answer. Tom, how- 
ever, did the best he could, and hushing Isaac as he 
would have hushed and quieted a grieving child, he spoke 
to him many a word of comfort, promising to care fox 
him as for a younger brother, and speaking of various 
ways in which his forlorn condition should be bettered, 
now that he was an inmate of the same prison. It was a 
bUssful interview, and its good effects were seen in the 
brightness of Isaac’s face, and the cheerful smile which 
played around his mouth, even after Tom had gone to 
his quarters below. 

Softer than downy pillow seemed the hard bare floor 
that night, as with his arm thrown round his invalid 
friend, Isaac lay dreaming of the frost-tipped trees at 
home, and the brown nuts ripening on the hill, where 
he, perhaps, might pick them yet, for Tom had given 
some encouragement that an exchange would ere long be 
effected, and as each believed his own name would be upon 
the list, so Isaac hoped his would, and in slumber’s fitful 
fancy he was at home again, and saw his mother come 
softly in to tuck the bed-clothes round him, or see if he 
were sleeping, just as she used to do. How stiU he lay 
to make her think he was asleep 1 How real seemed the 
vision, how life-like the kiss pressed upon his lips, and 
the tear-drop that came with it ! In a comer of the 
room there were groans and imprecations, and with a 
nervous start the dreamer woke to find it all a horrid de- 
lusion. That stifling, fetid atmosphere had in it no odoi 
of Kockland’s healthful breezes, and the star, shining on 
him through the iron bars, though familiar to him, wa« 
not the same which he used to watch from the window 


THE RICHMOND CAPTIVEa 


213 


beneath the eaves, facing to the north. No home, no 
mother, no soft feathery pillow for his head, or blanket 
for his body — nothing but that feverish hand still upon 
his forehead, and that tear on his cheek, for these were 
real, and the sick soldier at his side, who gave the kiss 
Mid tear, was whispering in his ear, that the way so 
tearfully sought was found at last; that the gloomy, des- 
olate prison was like the gates of Paradise, and death 
disarmed of aU its terror. 

“ If mother could only know it,” he said,“I should be 
so glad, and you’ll tell her, won’t you, when you get home 
again ? Tell her it wasn’t very hard to die, even in this 
dingy hole; that Heaven and Jesus are as near to me 
here on the floor, as if I were lying on my own bed at 
home, with her standing by. Tell her I’m glad I fought 
for the Stars and Stripes, but sorry I ran away without 
her consent, for I did. I got out on the wood-shed roof, 
and so came off unseen. She’s prayed for me eveiy day 
and every night, and God has heard her prayers. He 
sent you here to lead me in the way, and after I am gone, 
he’ll let you go back again.” 

There were a few more whispered words on either 
side, and then the exhausted but happy youth fell away 
to sleep, while Isaac wept with thankfulness that hia 
con^nement there had not been aU in vain. 

Faithful to his promise, Tom, as far as was possible, 
alleviated the hardships so long and so meekly borne by 
Isaac, and with his gold bought many a delicacy for 
Isaac’s end, the poor, sick Massachusetts boy, who 
mo night ere the physician had fairly decided that he 
miQ in need of medical care, laid his head on Isaac’s lap 
as ho was wont to do, and with another whispered mes- 
lage for the mother far away, and another assuranoe of 


214 


ROSE MATHER. 


perfect peace, went where the wicked cease from troub- 
ling, and the weary are at rest ! 

"While he Hved there had been something to take 
Isaac’s mind — something to excite his sympathy, and in 
ministering to Henry’s wants, he had more than hall 
forgotten his own, but now that he was gone, and the 
corner where he had sat or lain was empty, Isaac, too, 
faded rapidly, and not all Tom’s efforts had power to 
save him from the apathy which came stealing over him 
BO fast. Touched with pity at his forlorn, dejected ap- 
pearance, his comrades made him a little bed in the cor- 
ner where the dead boy had been, and there aU the day 
long he lay, rarely noticing any one except Tom Carle- 
ton, who came often to his side, and whose own warm 
blanket formed the pillow for his head. From the first 
floor to the third there was not one who was not more or 
less interested in the pale invalid, bearing his pain so 
patiently, never complaining, never repining, but thank- 
ing those about him for any kindness rendered with such 
chUdlike, touching sweetness, that even the rough jailer 
regarded him with favor, and paused sometimes to speak 
to him a word of encouragement. 

In this state of feeling it was not a difficult matter for 
Tom to obtain permission for Isaac to be removed from 
the dirty corner above to his own comparatively comfort- 
able cot in the officers’ apartments below. But this did 
not effect a cure. Nothing could do that save a sight ol 
home and mother. 

“ Could I see /icr,” Isaac said one day, or even stand 
again beneath the Federal Flag, I might get better, but 
here I shah surely die, and ii 1 do, oh. Captain Carle! on, 
you’U get them to send me home, won’t you? I 
don’t care for myself where I am buried, but my mother 
—it would break her heart to hear I was put with thf 


THE RICHMOND CAPTIYES. 


216 


negroes. She’s a rough woman, and folks who don’t 
know her much, thinks she’s cross and queer, but she’s 
been so good to me, and I love her so much I Oh, mothett 
mother, I wish she was here now,” and the sick boj 
turned his white face to the wall, sobbing out choking 
lobs which seemed to come from the lowest depths oi 
his heart. 

Cries for home and mother were not uncommon in that 
prison-house, but there was something so piteous in his 
child-like wail that other officers than Tom bent over 
the poor lad, trying to comfort him by telling of an ex- 
change which, it was hoped would ere long be effected, 
and by painting happy pictures of the glad rejoicing 
which would greet the returning captives. For an in- 
stant the great tears, dropping so fast from Isaac’s lids, 
were staid in their course, and a smile of hope shone on 
his pallid face, but quickly passed away as he suggested, 

“ Yes, but who knows if / will be on the list ?” 

No one could tell him that. All would not go, they 
knew, and they could only wait patiently, each hoping 
he would be the favored one. At last there came a day, 
never to be forgotten by the inmates of that tobacco 
house, a day on which was read the names of those who 
were to be released and breathe again the air of freedom. 
Oh, how anxiously the sick boy listened as one after 
another was called. “Captain Thomas Carleton ” was 
among the number, and a deep flush stole to the young 
man’s face as uncertainty was thus made sure. He was 
going home, and like waves upon the beach, the throbs 
of joy beat around his heart, making him glad as a little 
shild when returning to its mother after a long separa- 
ion. 

But oh, who shall tell Isaac’s emotions as name afte* 
name was caDed, and none that, sounded like hia 


216 


MATHER. 


Would they never reacli it, never say Isaac Simnu 
Could it be he as not there ? Larger and thicker gre'W 
the drops of sweat, quivering about his mouth, and stand- 
ing upon his forehead. "Whiter, more death-like grow hid 
face; heavier, sadder, more mournful the eyes, fixed so 
wistfully upon the caller of that roll, growing less so fastw 
rhere could not be many more, and the head drooped 
upon the heaving bosom, with a discouraged, disheart- 
ened feehng, just as the last was read, not hisj not Isaac 
Simms. He was not there, and with a moan, which smote 
painfully on Tom’s ear, the disappointed boy turned 
away, and wept bitterly, while his pale lips moved feebly 
with the prayer for help he essayed to make To be left 
there alone, with no kind Captain Carleton to soothe the 
weary hours, to be returned, most likely, to the noisy 
floor above, to die some night when nobody knew or 
cared, — it was terrible, — and Widow Simms would have 
shrieked in anguish could she have seen the look of des- 
pair settling down on her darling’s face. 

But though she did not see it, there was one who did, 
and guessing at the thoughts which prompted it, he 
walked away to be alone, and gather strength for the 
sacrifice he must make. Tom Carleton could not desert 
the boy who had clung so faithfully to him, and as Isaac 
had once staid by him in the Virginia woods, when he 
might have gone away, so he now would stay with Isaao 
Still it was hard to give up going home, and for a mo- 
ment he felt a-s if he could not. There was a fierce 
struggle between duty and inclination, — a mighty combat 
between Tom’s selfishness and his better nature, — and 
then the latter conquered. He must stay. It would not 
be difficult to find some person to take his place clan- 
destinely, for already were the unfortunate ones seeking 
to buy such chances, and offering every possible induoo- 


THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES. 


219 


ment to any wlio would accept. A young lieutenant 
about his age and appearance, and whose wife and child 
were suffering from his absence, was the one selected by 
Tom as his substitute, and the matter soon arranged 
riien, with a forced cheerfulness he did not feel, Tom 
rvent back to Isaac, who was still weeping silently on his 
Douch, and whispering to an unseen presence, “ You^U 
never leave me, will you ? and when I die you’ll take me 
up to Heaven ?” 

Here was a faith, a trust, to which Tom Carleton was 
a stranger, and -wishing himself more like that sick boy 
ho bent over the cot, and said cheerily, 

“ Isaac, are you asleep ?” 

In the tone of his voice there was something so kind 
and sympathetic, that Isaac started up, and winding his 
feeble arms around Tom’s neck, sobbed out, 

“Forgive me. Captain Carleton; I’m glad you are go- 
ing home, but I wasn’t at first; the bad, hard lumps kept 
rising in my throat as I thought of staying here alone 
without you, but they’re gone now. I prayed them aU 
away, and I am glad you are going. I shall miss you 
dreadfully, but God whi not forsake me. And, Captain 
Carleton, if you ever do, — see —my, — my ” 

Isaac’s voice was choked with tears, and he could not 
at first articulate that dear word, but soon recovering, he 
went on — “see my mother, you’ll teU her about me. 
Tell her everything except how I’ve suffered. That 
would do no good — ’twould only make her cry, and 
when she hears, as she maybe wiQ, that I am dead, tell 
I wasn’t afraid, for the Saviour was with me. I’d rather 
you shouldn’t say good-bye at the last. It would make 
me feel so bad, only sometime before you go I want to 
tell you how much I love you for your goodness, and to 
ttsk you to be a ’ 


10 


218 


ROSE MATHER. 


He did not finisli the sentence, for Tom knew what hi 
would say, and wiping both sweat and tears from off thi 
worn face, looking so lovingly at him, he answered, “ J 
will try to be a better man. I never felt the need of it sc 
laiach till I came here, and Isaac, I am going to stay 
itill you, too, are exchanged. Did you think I would 
desert the boy who, but for me, would not have been a 
prisoner ?” 

Isaac did not reply; only the soft, blue eyes Hghted up 
with sudden, eager joy ; the lips trembled as if they 
would speak, there was a perceptible shudder, and then 
Tom held in his arms a fainting, unconscious form. The 
revulsion of feeling was too great, and for many minutes 
Isaac gave no sign of Hfe, but when at last he was re- 
stored again, he tried to dissuade Tom from making so 
great a sacrifice, but aU in vain. Tom silenced every 
objection, and when the 3d of January came, and pris- 
oners w'ere released, another than Tom Carleton answer- 
ed to his name, and marched from Kichmond in his 
stead. 

Tom had once spent several months in Eichmond, and 
in the higher circles he numbereu many personal friends, 
who, until quite recently, were ignorant of the fact that 
he was a prisoner in their midst. Of these the more 
loyal to the new Confederacy ignored him entirely. 
Others, remembering his genial humor, and quiet, gen- 
tlemanly manner which had won their admiration for 
the elegant Bostonian and his gentle wife, threw their 
prejudice aside, and respecting him because he had stood 
firmly by his own State, visited him in his prison, while 
others sent playful messages that though they denounced 
him as an intruder upon their rights, they owned him as a 
friend, and would gladly amehorate his condition. To 
these acquaintance it was soon known how great a sacri' 


THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES. 


211 


fice Tom had made for the sake of a young boy, and the 
result was a gradual abatement of the surveillance held 
over Tom, while many privileges hitherto denied by the 
strict jail discipline, were accorded to him. Isaac, too, 
iras benefited through him, and more than one fair ladj 
nsited the invalid, growing strangely interested in the 
gentle Yankee boy,” and bringing many a delicacj 
with which to tempt his capricious appetite. But no 
amount of kindness could win him back to health sa 
long as he breathed the atmosphere of prison walls. To 
go home was aU he desired, and day after day the flesh 
shrivelled from his bones, and the blue veins stood out 
round and full upon his wasted hands until there came a 
night when the physician told the jailer, whom he met 
upon the stairs, that “the Yankee boy was dying.” 

There were not many now in prison, and ere long the 
sad news was known throughout the building, causing 
the riotous ones to hush their noisy revels, and tread 
softly across the uncovered floor, lest they should dis- 
turb the sufferer below. The jailer, too, remembering 
his own son, afar in Southern Tennessee, wiped a tear 
from his rough face, and drew nearer to the humble cot 
where Tom sat watching the panting and seemingly dy- 
ing boy. There were moments of feverish delirium, 
when the prison, with its surrounding horrors, faded 
away, and Isaac was at home, bathing his burning brow 
with the snow covering the Northern hills, or talking to 
his mother of all that had transpired since the April 
morning when, followed by her prayers and tears, he left 
her for the battle. Then, reason came back again, as clear 
as ever, and with Tom Carleton’s hand pressed between 
his own he dictated what Tom should say to the mother 
i?hen he went back to her alone and left her boy behind 

“I shall never go home any more,” he said, “ and I v4 


220 


BOSE LtATHBR. 


built such bright castles about it, too, fajicjing how nici 
it would seem to lie on mother’s soft, warm bed, and 
watch the sun shining through the windows, or the grass 
springing by the door. The snow will melt from the 
^rden before long, and the flowers I used to tend come 
tip again, but I shan’t be there to see them. I shall be 
lying here so quiet and so still that I shall not even hoar 
the cannon’s roar, or the loud huzzahs when peace is at 
last declared, and the cruel war is ended. Oh, if all the 
dead ones could know, it would be something worth 
fighting for, but when the troops are marching home, 
and the bells ring out a welcome, there’ll be many a one 
missing in the ranks, and almost every graveyard, both 
North and South, will hold a soldier’s grave, but you 
will not forget us, will you ?” and the sunken eyes turned 
pleadingly on Tom. “ When the bonfires are kindled at 
the North, and the glad rejoicings are made, you will 
think of the poor boys who fought and died that you 
might enjoy just such a holiday ?” 

Tom could only answer by pressing the thin hand* he 
held, and Isaac continued: 

" Tell mother not to fret too much for me. I guess 
she did love m« best, because I was the youngest, but 
Eli and John will comfort her old age. Tell them, too, 
how much I love them, and how proud I was of them 
that day at Bull Kun. They used to plague me some- 
times, and call me a girl baby, but I’ve forgiven that, for 
I know they did not mean it. I hope they’ll both be 
q)ared. It would kill mother to lose us all. Tell her 
how I bless her for the lessons of my childhood, the 
prayers said at her knee before I knew their meaning, 
the Sunday School she sent me to, and the Bible stories 
told in the winter twilight. Tell her I was not afraid to 
die, only I wanted her so much, but everybody’s been 


THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES. 


22J 


g^od. There are kind folks here in Richmond, and God 
will bless them for it. Oh, Captain Carleton, I’m a poor 
ignorant boy, and you a proud, rich man, but you wil 
heed me, won’t you, and when I’m gone, you’ll take mj 
little Testament and read it every day. Read it first foi 
Isaac’s sake, but it won’t be long before you’ll read it for 
its precious truths, and you will come to Heaven wher^ 
we can meet again — promise, won’t you?” 

There was a moment’s silence, during which Tom 
choked down the tears he could scarcely suppress, so 
strongly this scene reminded him of another, when he 
sat by Mary’s side, and heard her dying voice urging 
him to meet her. Four years the Southern sun had 
shone upon her grave, and he had made no preparation 
yet, but now he would put it off no longer, and bending 
over Isaac, he replied: 

“I promise; and if you see my darling in the better 
land, teU her, God helpmg me. I’ll find my way to where 
she has gone.” 

The white bps feebly murmured their thanks, and then 
suddenly asked: 

“ Do you think mother’s got the letter you sent, and 
knows how sick I am ? If so, she’s praying for me now, 
and maybe her prayers will save. I’m not afraid to die, 
but if I could go home to Rockland first, it would not 
seem so bad. Pray, mother, pray — pray, pray hard,” and 
too much exhausted to talk longer, the half-dehrious boy 
turned upon the pillow furnished by some kind lady, and 
fell into a heavy sleep, from which the physician said h€ 
would never waken. 


Midnight in Richmond, and Tom, counting off thi 
itrokes, bent lower to watch for the expected change 


222 


ROSE MATHER 


There was no color in the parted hps, and about the 
nose there was a pinched, contracted look, which Ton 
remembered k) have seen in Mary’s face, when b\ her 
bedside he had sat, just as he sat by Isaac’s, but where 
Mary’s hands were cold and di’y Isaac’s were moist and 
vorm, while the rapid pulses were not as wiry, and iiTegu- 
ioi as hers had been. There was hope, and falling on his 
knees, Tom Carleton asked that the life almost gone out 
might be restored, and promised that if it were he would 
not forget this lesson as he had forgotten the one learned 
b> Mary’s death-bed. He would be a better man, he 
said, and God, as he sometimes does, took him at his 
word. Gradually the sharp expression passed away, the 
hair grew damp with a more healthful moisture, the 
pulses were slower, the breathing more regular, and when 
a last the heavy slumber was broken, and Isaac looked up 
again, Tom knew that he would hve. 

There was a murmured prayer of thanksgiving, a re- 
newal of his pledge, and then he bent every energy to 
sustain the hfe coming so slowly back. Softly the 
morning broke over the prison walls, and they who had 
expected to look on Isaac dead, rejoiced to hear that he 
was better. 

It may be I shall see mother yet," he whispered, 
faintly, when Tom told him that the dreaded crisis waa 
past ; “ and if I do. I’ll tell her of your kindness." 

“Would you like very much to go home to youf 
mother ?" Tom asked, and with a quivering lip and chin 
Isaac answered: 

“ Yes, oh, yes, if I only could I I was willing to die, 
but I guess we all cling to life at the last, don’t you ?” 

Tom did not reply to this, but spoke instead of a rumoi 
that all were soon to be discharged and sent back U 
Washington. 


II 

I! 


tom’s reception. 22& 

"Well go together, then,” he said, ‘‘you and I, for 1 
shall visit Rockland first and see my sister Rose.” 

The nrospect of release was meat and drink foi Isaac, 
who rallied so fast that when the joyful news of an ex- 
change did come, he was able, with Tom’s help, to walk 
across the floor of what had been his home so long. 

Haggard, wasted, weary, and worn were those pris- 
oners as they filed down the stairs and out into the 
streets, but with each moment which brought them nearer 
home, their spirits rose, and when at last they stood again 
on Federal soil and saw the Stars and Stripes waving in 
the morning breeze, long and deafening were the huzzas 
which rent the air as one after another gave vent to his 
great joy at finding himself free once more. Isaac, how- 
ever, could neither shout, nor laugh, nor speak, and only 
the large eyes, brimming with tears, told of joy unutter- 
able, but when arrived at Washington, his two stalwart 
brothers took him in their arms, huggiug and crying over 
him as over one come back to them from the grave, his 
calmness all gave way, and laying his tired head on Eli’s 
bosom, while John held and caressed his wasted hands, 
he sobbed out the happiness too great to be expressed in 
words. To him a full discharge from service was readily 
accorded, while to Tom a furlough of several weeks was 
given, and after a lew days at Washington both started 
northward to join the friends waiting so impatiently for 
their arrival 


BOSE MATHXB 


S24 


CHAPTEE XIX. 



TOMS R E OEP TICK. 

'HE people of Eockland had become somewhat ac 
customed to the “ Eebel lion,” as they had play 
^ fully called Jimmie Carleton, and the latter could 
now go quietly through the streets without attracting at- 
tentions which at first had been vastly disagreeable to 
the sensitive young man. Gradually, as he mingled more 
with the people, they had learned to like him, and were 
fast forgetting that he had ever joined the ranks of the 
foe and struck at his mother country. With the rabble 
who had met him at the depot on his first arrival at Kock- 
land he was vastly popular, for forcing down his pride, he 
had been very conciliatory toward them, and they still ad- 
hered to their olden promise of making him their next 
poHce justice, provided he would consent to run. 

With his usual impudence. Bill Baker continued to an- 
noy the proud Bostonian with his good-humored fami- 
liarities, some of which Jimmie permitted, while others 
he quietly repulsed, for Bill’s constant allusions to the 
past were exceedingly disagreeable, and as far as possi- 
ble he avoided his quondam associate, who, without the 
least suspicion that his manner was disgusting in the ex- 
treme, would had him across the street, addressing hus 
always as “ Corp’ral,” and if strangers were in hearing, 
inviting him to “ cad 'round and see a feUar once m t 
whde for old acquaintance sake.” 

At the Mather mansion matters remained about the 
same as when Jimmie first came home. Mrs. Carleton 
was still there, waiting for her other son, and Eose, at 


TOM S RECEPTION. 


22f 


iiBua], wari ever on tht alert, seeking ways and means b} 
which the soldiers might be benefited, compelling Jim- 
mie to be interested in all her plans, dragging him from 
place to place, sending him on errands; and once, when 
ii\ a great hurry to get a box in readiness for the hospitalil 
al Washington, actually coaxing him into helping tie a 
ct mfortabley which was put up in her back parlor, and 
which she must send immediately, for some poor fellow 
was sure to need it.” “ Jimmie could learn to tie as well 
as herself,” she said, when he pleaded his ignorance as an 
excuse for refusing his services. “ She didn’t know how 
once, but Widow Simms and Annie had taught her a 
heap, and Annie would teach him, too. All he had to do 
was to put the big darning needle through twice, tie a 
weaver’s knot, cut it ofi*, and the thing was done; besides 
that, ’twas a real pretty quilt, made from Annie’s calico 
dress, which she used to wear last summer and look sc 
sweetly in. Annie w^as tying on one side and Jimmie 
must tie on the other; he needn’t be so lazy. He ought 
to do something for the war.” 

By the time Kose had reached the last points in her ar- 
gument, Jimmie had closed the book he was reading, and 
concluded that there might be duties required of him a 
great deal worse than tying a soldier’s comfortable with 
Annie to oversee I It was strange how much teaching 
he needed, and how often Annie was called to the rescue. 
The needle would stick so in the cotton, and he could 
not remember just how to tie that knot. So Annie, nev- 
er dreaming that he knew how to tie the knot as well af 
she, would come to his aid, her hands sometimes touch- 
ing his, and his black curls occasionally brushing her pale, 
brown braids as he bent over her to see how she did it 
BO as to know himself next time! There was a world ol 
mischief in Jimmie’s saucy eyes as he demurely apolo 


m 


ROSE MATHER. 


gized to Mrs. Graham for the trouble he was giving her, oni 
Annie never once looked up, neither did the color deepen 
in the least upon her cheek, and when Jimmie, on pur- 
pose to draw her out, suggested that “he was more 
bother than help,” she answered that he “had better re- 
turn to his reading, as she could get on quite as weD 
alone.” 

After this, Jimmie thought proper to learn a little 
faster, and soon outstripped his teacher, who rewarded 
him with no word of approval save a cool “ Thank you,” 
when the comfortable was done and taken from the 
awkwai’d frames. And this was a fair specimen of the 
aatui-e of the intercourse existing between Jimmie and 
Annie. Secure now in the belief that she would never ^ 
be recognized as the “ Pequot of New London,” Annie 
regarded Jimmie as any ordinary stranger, in whom she 
had no particular interest, save that which her kind 
heart prompced her to feel for all mankind. She could 
not dislike him, and she always defended him from the 
aspersions of the widow, who could not quite conquer ; 
her repugnance to a Kebel, and who frequently gave 
vent to her ill-will toward Jimmie, whom she thought so 
proud. i 

“ Stuck-up critter 1” she said, “ struttin* round as if j 
he was good as anybody, and feelin’ above his betters 
Of course he felt above her, and Susan, and Annie, she 
knew he did; anil if she’s Annie she vummed if she’d 
stay there, and be looked at as Jim looked at her.” 

Although making due allowance for the widow’s pre- 
judice, thesv:> remarks were not without their effect upon 
iinnie, who, imperceptibly to herself, began to feel that 
probably Jimmie did regard her as merely a poor de- 
pendent on his sister’s bounty, and she unconsciously as- 
sumed toward him a cool reserved manner, which led bii* > 


tom's reception. 


227 


fco fancy tliat she entertained for him a deep-rooted pre 
judice on account of his past error. Twenty times s 
day he said to himself he did not care what she thought 
of him, and as many times a day he knew he did care 
much more than was at all conducive to his peace of 
mind. Where this caring might end he never stopped 
to consider. He only felt now that he respected the 
Quaker-like Annie more than he ever respected a woman 
before, and coveted her good opinion more earnestly than 
he ever remembered to have coveted anything in his 
hfe, unless, indeed, it were his freedom when a prisoner 
in Bill Baker^s power. 

In this state of affairs it required all Rose's tact to 
sustain anything like sociabihty between her brother 
and Annie, and the little lady was perfectly delighted 
when the joyful tidings was received that Tom was com- 
mg home. Annie would hke Tom, for everybody did ; be- 
sides, Tom had written as if he were almost a good man 
himself, and Annie was sure to be pleased with that; they, 
at least, would be fast friends; and secure on this point. 
Rose, with her usual impulsiveness, plunged into the pre- 
parations for Tom’s reception . Even Annie did not think 
any reasonable honor too gi'eat for him, particularly aftei 
Isaac wrote from Washington to his mother, telling her of 
Tom’s generous sacrifice, and how he might have been home 
long before if he had not chosen to stay and care for o 
poor, sick boy. How the widow’s heart warmed toward 
the Carletons, taking the whole family into its hitherto 
rather limited dimensions. Even Jimmie was not ex- 
3luded, the widow admitting to Mrs. Baker, betweer 
whom and herself there had been many a hot discussion 
iOuching the so-called Rebel, that v’hen he laughed, 
'he was uncommon handsome for a Secessioner,” anc 


228 


ROSE MATHER. 


she presumed that “ at the bottom he was as good the} 
would average.” 

But if the widow were thus affected by Tom’s kind 
act, how much more were the mother and sister pleased 
to know how noble and good he was, while Annie, amid 
the tears she could not repress, said to Eose, 

“ You should be proud of such a brother 1 There ars 
few like him, I am sure !” 

How Jimmie envied Tom, as he heard, on all sides, 
praises for his noble unselfishness, and the resolution 
to welcome him and Isaac with military honors. Once 
more in liis element. Bill Baker industriously drilled 
his clique, who were to answer no earthly purpose save 
to swell the throng and prolong the deafening cheers. 
Bill began to feel related to the Carletons, and regularly 
each day he called at the Mather mansion to keep Eose 
posted with regard to the progress of affairs. They were 
to bring out the new gun, he said, and as it was minus a 
name, the villagers had concluded to call it the “ Thomas 
Garleton,'* asking “ how she thought the 'Square would 
like it, and how many times it ought to be fired. The 
band would serenade Tom in the evening,” he said, 
“ and we shall have bonfires kindled in the streets,” talk- 
ing as if instead of being merely cannon-tender, he were 
head manager of the whole, and that all the responsibil- 
ity was resting on himself. Eose understood him per- 
fectly, and with the utmost good nature listened to his 
suggestions, and scolded Jimmie for calling him her 
prime minister and confidant. 

From the cupola of the Mather mansion the Stars and 
Stripes were to be hung out, and on the morning of Tom’s 
expected arrival, Jimmie and Annie climbed the winding 
stairs and fastened the staff securely to its place. There 
were tears in Annie’s eyes as the graceful folds shook 


tom’s RECEPnOU 


229 


IhemBelyes to the breeze, for she remembered the com 
ing of another soldier when this same banner was wrappec 
around a coffin. Across the valley and beyond the con 
fines of the village she could see where that coffin with 
ts loved inmate was buried, and as the past came rush« 
ng over her, she suddenly gave way, and sitting down 
beneath the flag w’ept bitterly, while Jimmie, with a 
vague idea as to what might have caused her tears, stood 
looking at her, wishing he could comfort her. But 
what should he say ? As yet they had scarcely passed 
the bounds of the most scrupulous politeness to each 
other, and for him to attempt to comfort her seemed 
preposterous, while to leave her without a word, seemed 
equally unkind. Perhaps it w'as the beautiful glossy 
braids of hair which brought him at last to a decision, 
causing him to lay his hand involuntarily upon the bowed 
head, while he said: 

” I am sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, for I know how 
much the contrast between my brother’s return and that 
of your husband must afi’ect you, and gladly would I 
spai-e you the pain, if I could. I am not certain but the 
good people of Rockland, in their intended kindness to 
Tom, are doing you an injury, and surely Lieutenant 
Graham, having been a resident of this place, should 
receive their first thought with all pertaining to him.” 

There was no mistaking the genuine sympathy which 
thrilled in every tone of Jimmie’s voice, and for a mo- 
ment Annie wept more passionately than before. It was 
*.he first time he had ever spoken to her of her husband, 
iiid his words touched a responsive chord at once. 

> “ It is not that so much,” she answered, at last. ‘‘ 1 

am glad they are honoring yonr brother thus; he richly 
'deserves it for his noble adherence to his country in hei 
hour of peril, and for his generous treatment of pool 


230 


ROSE MATHER. 


Isaac Simms. I would do much myself to show him mj 
respect; but oh, George, George, I am so desolate without 
him !” and covering her face with her hands, Annie wepi 
igain, more piteously than before. 

Here was a point which Jimmie could not touch, anil 
in awkward silence ensued, broken at last by Annie, 
»fho, resuming her usual calm demeanor, frankly offered 
Jimmie her hand, saying: 

‘‘I thank you, Mr. Carleton, for your sympathy. It 
has made me believe you are my friend, and as such 1 
would rather consider you.” 

“ Your friend ! Did you ever deem me other than 
that?” Jimmie replied in some surprise, involuntarily 
pressing the little hand which only for an instant rested 
in his, and then was quietly withdrawn just as Kose from 
the foot of the stairs called out to know “ what they 
were doing up there so long.” 

It was strange how differently Jimmie felt after this 
incident, and how fast his spirits rose. The few words 
said to him by Annie up in his sister’s cupola had made 
him very happy, for he felt that a better understanding 
existed between himself and Annie, that she did not so 
thoroughly despise him as he had at first supposed, and 
that the winning her respect was not a hoj^eless task. 

As early as two the crowd began to gather in the 
streets, and half an hour later Kose’s carriage, with Jim- 
mie in it, was on its way to the depot. Mrs. Carleton 
(lid not care to go, and so Hose, too, remained at home, 
and mounting to the cupola, watched for the first wreath 
:f smoke which should herald the approach of the train. 

“I see it,— he’s coming!” she screamed, as a feathery 
mist was discernible over the distant plains, and in a few 
moments more the cars swept round the curve, while 9 


TOM S RECEPTION. 231 

booming gxm told that Bill Baker was faithful to hii 
duty 

There was a swaying to and fro of the throng at the 
depot, a pushing each other aside, a trilling of fife, a 
beating of drums, and then a deafening shout went up ag 
Tom Carle ton and John Simms appeared upon the plat- 
form, carefully supporting the tottering steps of th( 
weak, excited boy, who stood between them. At sight 
of Isaac, there was a momentary hush, and then, with a 
shriek such as a tigress might give when it saw its young 
in danger, the Widow Simms rushed frantically forward, 
and catching the light form of her child in her arms, 
tried to bear him through the crowd, but her strength 
was insufficient, and she would have fallen had not Jim- 
mie relieved her of her burden, which he sustained with 
one hand, while the other was extended to welcome the 
stranger who came near. 

Half bewildered, Tom looked around upon the multi- 
tude, asking in a whisper what it meant. He could not 
think they had come to welcome him, and when assured 
by Jimmie that such was the fact, his lip quivered for an 
instant, and his tongue refused its office. Then, in a few 
weU-chosen words, he thanked the people for the unde- 
served surprise, so far as he was himself concerned, isme 
was more worthy of such welcome, he said, and more than 
half of it was meant, he knew, for their townsman, who 
had shown himself equally brave in camp, in battle, and 
in prison, while, had they known that Lieutenant Simms, 
too, was coming, he was sure they would not hfivc 
thought of him a stranger to them all. 

The brief speech ended, and Kose, listening at home, 
clapped her hands in ecstasy as she heard the terrific 
cheers and caught the name of “ Carleton” mingled will 
* Isaac Simms.” 


m 


ROSE MATHER. 


“ Poor boy !” she said, “ I wonder how ne’ll get home 1 
1 wish I had told Jimmie to drive that way, and taki 
him in tne carriage,” 

She need have given herself no uneasiness, for whal 
fihe had forgotten was remembered by Jimmie, who^i 
after a hurried consultation with Tom, insisted that both 
Isaac and his mother should take seats in the carriage, 
while he and Tom mingled with the crowd. 

“ And your other son, there’s room for him,” be said, 
looking round in quest of John, who, at the last moment, 
had obtained permission to visit his bride, and so came 
on with Isaac. 

At a glance his eye had singled out Susan, and the 
young couple were now standing apart from the rest, ex- 
changing mutual caresses, and words of love, the tall 
Lieutenant kissing fondly the blushing girl who could 
not reahze that she stood in the presence of her hus- 
bancL After a little it was decided that Tom and Jim- 
mie, Mrs. Simms and Isaac, should occupy the carriage, 
while John and Susan walked, and so from her lofty 
stand-point. Rose watched the long procession winding 
down the streets, amid the strains of music and the can- 
non’s bellovdng roar. It was very exciting to Isaac, and 
by the time the cottage was reached he was glad to be 
lifted out by Jimmie, who bore the tired boy tenderly 
into the house and laid him down on the soft, warm bed 
he had dreamed about so many nights in the dark, filthy 
orison corner. How faint and weak he was, and how 
glad to be home again I Winding his arms around hie 
mother’s neck, he sobbed out his great joy, saying amic 
his tears, “ God was so kind to let me come back U. 
Tom” 

It was a very happy group the nllageis left behind li 


TOM'S KfiCEPTION. 


23a 


ihat humble cottage, and neither John nor Susan thought 
it out of place when the mother called on them to kneel 
with her and thank the Giver of all good for Lis great 
mercy in granting them this blessing. 

Meantime the procession passed on until it reached 
the Mather mansion, where, with three cheers for Cap- 
tain Carleton, the crowd dispersed, leaving Tom at hb- 
erty to join the mother and sister waiting so impatiently 
for him, one on the steps, and the other in the parlor 
just where she had welcomed Jimmie. 

“ If Will were only here, it would be the happiest day 
I ever knew,” Eose said, as, seating herself on Tom’s knee 
with her chubby arm around his neck, she asked him 
numerous questions concerning her absent husband. 
Then, as she saw in him signs of weariness she said, “ You 
are tired, T know. “ Suppose you go to your room till din- 
ner-time. It’s the one right at the head of the stairs,” 
she continued, and glad of an opportunity to rest, Tom 
went to the room where Annie Graham just then chanced 
to bo. She had discovered that the servant had neglected 
to supply the rack with towels, and so she had brought them 
herself, lingering a moment after they were arranged, to 
see if everything were in order. She did not hear Tom’s 
step, until he opened the door upon her, and uttered an 
exclamation of surprise and apology. He had no idea 
who the little black robed figui'e was, for though he knew 
the wife of George Graham was an inmate of his sister’s 
family, he had her in his mind as a very different person 
from this one before him. Mrs. Graham was young, he 
supposed, and possibly good looking, but she did not 
boar the stamp of refinement and elegai ce which thii 
graceful creatui’e did, and fancying he had made a mis* 
take and stumbled into the apartment of some city visi 


234 


BOSE MATHER. 


tor, he was about tc withdraw, when Annie came toward 
him, saying: 

“ Excuse me, sir, I came in to see that all was right in 
fcur room. Mr. Carleton, I presume?” 

This last Annie spoke dcubtingly, for in the tall, hand* 
fome stranger before her there was scarcely a ve»tige o 
the ^‘greyish b aired, oldish, fatherly-looking man” she 
had in fancy known as Captain Carleton, and but for the 
eyes, so much like Mrs. Mather’s, and the unmistakable 
Carleton curve about the mouth, she would never have 
dreamed that it was Tom to whom she was speaking. As 
it was, she waited for him to confirm her suspicions, 
which he did by bowing in the affirmative to her interro- 
gation, “ Mr. Carleton, I presume ?” 

Then holding the door for her to pass out, he stood 
watching her till she disappeared at the extreme end ol 
the hall, wondering who she was, and why a mere visitor 
should take so much interest in his room. Once he 
thought of Annie Graham; but this could not be a wid- 
ow, though the deep mourning dress told of recent be- 
reavement. Still Annie Graham was a different person- 
age, he knew; and thus perplexed, Tom, instead of rest- 
ing, commenced his ioiletfor dinner, determining, as soon 
as it was completed, to go down and have the mystery 
unravelled. 

Restless and impatient to know just what his brother 
thought of his late treachery to the Federal Flag, Jimmie 
paced the parlors below until he could wait no longer 
and knowing by the sounds which came from the cham 
ber above, that Tom was not trying to sleep, he finally 
ran up the stairs, and knocking at the chamber door, was 
soon closeted with Tom. It was an awkward business 
to speak of the past, but Jimmie plunged into it at once, 
ftating some reasons which had led him to abjure hi# 


TOM S RECEPTION. 


m 


own governrr ent, expressing liis contrition for having done 
80, and ending by saying he hoped Tom, if possible, would 
forget that he ever had a rebel brother. 

It had taken Tom a long time to recover from the 
ihock of meeting his brother in the Virginia woods, and 
Knowing he was a traitor to his country, but the same 
generous feeling which led him to refrain from any allu- 
sion to that meeting in the messages sent to his mother 
and sister from his Kichmond prison, now prompted him 
to treat with kind forbearance the brother whom he had 
loved and grieved over since the days of his mischievous 
boyhood. 

“ I should have found it very hard to forgive you ii 
you had staid in the Southern army,” he said, “ but as 
it is we will never mention the subject again.” 

Jimmie knew, by the warm pressure of Tom’s hand, that 
be was forgiven, and with a burden lifted fi'om his mind 
be was about leaving the room, when Tom, with a pre- 
liminary cough, said: 

“ By the w'ay, Jimmie, who has Bose got here, — what 
visitor, I mean?” and Tom tried to look vastly indiffer- 
:nt as he buttoned his vest and hung across it the chain 
made from Mary’s hair. 

But the ruse did not succeed. Jimmie knew he had 
seen Annie, and with a sudden uprising of something un- 
iefined he answered in apparent surprise; 

‘‘Visitor! what visiter! He must have come to-day, 
I ben. Where did you see him ?” 

“I saw her in here,” Tom replied, and Jimmie laugh* 
n:gly rejoined: 

“ A | )retty place for a Arr in i/oar quarters ! Pray, what 
Kim she like?” 

“ Some like Mary, as she used to be when I first kne^ 
her — a little body dressed in black.” 


286 


ROSE MATHER. 


“ With large, handsome, blue eyes ?” interrupted Jim 
inie, while Tom, without susj)ecting that his brother^! 
object was to ascertain how closely he had observed thf 
figure in black, replied: 

“ Yes, very handsome, dreamy eyes.” 

“And pale, brown curls?'* was the teasing Jimmie 'i 
oext query, to which Tom quickly responded: 

“ Curls, no. The hair was braided in wide plats and 
twisted around the head, falling low in the neck.” 

“ Not a very white neck, was it ?” Jimmie continued 
with imperturbable gravity. 

“ Indeed, it was,” Tom said, industriously scraping his 
thumb nail with his penknife. “White as snow, or 
looked so from the contrast with her dress. Who is 
she?” 

“One question more, — had she big feet or httle, slip- 
pers or boots ?” and this time Jimmie’s voice betrayed 
him. 

Tom knew he was being teased, and bursting into a 
laugh, he answered: 

“I confess to having observed her closely, but not 
enough so to tell the size of her slipper. Come now, who 
is she ? Some lady you spiiited away from Secession- 
dom ? Tell me, — you know you’ve nothing tp fear from 
steady old Tom.” 

Foi an instant the eyes of the two brothers met^ with 
a curious expression in each. Both were conscious oi 
something they were trying to conceal, while a feel- 
ing akin to a pang shot through Jimmie s heart as he 
thought how much more worthy of Annie Graham’s re- 
spect was steady old Tom than a i-ollicking young scape- 
grace like himself. 

“From your rather minute description I think yon 
must have stumbled upon the Widow G'^aham, * he said 


V 


tom’s reception. 


237 


•’ Kose has taken her up, you know, and as i word ot 
brotherly ad rice, let mo say that if you wish to raise Rose 
to the seventh heaven you have only to praise her pro- 
tegee. We, that is the widow and I, do not get on verv 
well, for she is a staunch patriot, and until this morning 
S verily believe she looked on me as a kind of monster. 
She’s a perfect little Puritan, too, and if she stays here 
long, will make a straight-laced Methodist of Rose, 
under the garb of an Episcopalian, of course, as she 
is the strictest kind of a church woman.” 

“I shall not esteem her less for that,” Tom said, 
and in rather a perturbed state of mind, as far as 
the Widow Graham was concerned, he went with Jim- 
mie to the parlor, half hoping his brother bad mischiev- 
ously misled him, and that the stranger would prove after 
aU to be some visitor from Boston. 

But the first object he saw on entering the parlor was 
the dainty figure in black, standing by the window, and 
on the third finger of the hand raised to adjust the heavy 
curtain gbttered the wedding ring. Tom knew now that 
Jimmie had not deceived him, and with a feeling of dis- 
appointment he addressed Mrs. Graham, when introduc 
ed by Jimmie, making some playful allusion to .heir hav- 
ing met before, but saying nothing to her then of George, 
for remembering his own feeHngs when Mary died, he 
knew that Annie would not thank him, a stranger, to 
bring up sad memories of the past by talking of her hus- 
band. Still, in his manner toward her there was some- 
thing which told how he pitied and sympathized witl 
her> and Annie, grateful always for the smallest kindness 
threw off her air of quiet reserve and talked with him 
freely, asking many questions concerning Isaac Simmg 
and the condition of the Richmond prisoners generally. 

“ She was going round after dinner to call on Isaac,* 


288 


ROSF MATHEE. 


she incidentally said, whereupon Tom rejoined that mfili 
mg to know how Isaac bore the journey and the excite 
ment, he had intended going there himself, and would 
with her permission, time his visit to suit her conver 
le«ce, and so accompany her. 

Instantly Jimmie’s black eyes flashed upon Annie a Icol 
of inquiry, which brought the bright color to her cheeks, 
for she knew he was thinking of the night when she had 
refused his escort, and she felt her present position a rather 
embarrassing one. StiU the circumstances were entirely 
different. There was a reason why Tom should caU on 
Widow Simms, while with Jimmie there was none, and 
bowing to Captain Carleton, she replied that “ she pre- 
sumed Mrs. Simms would be glad of an opportunity to 
thank him for his kindness to Isaac, and that, though 
not in the least afraid to go alone, she had no objection 
to showing him the way.” 

“WTiat! going off the first night, and they are coming 
to serenade you, too? You must not go, Tom. Shall 
he, mother ?” cried Rose, who at first had been too busy 
with her duties as hostess, clearly to comprehend what 
Tom was saying to Annie. 

“ It win look as if you do not appreciate the people’s 
attention,” IMrs. Carleton replied, while Jimmie vehement- 
ly protested against the impropriety of the act, and so 
Tom was compelled to yield, thinking the while that a 
walk to the Widow Simms’ might possibly afford him quite 
as much satisfaction as staying at home for a serenade. 

“ I always surrender to the majority,” he said, playful- 
ly, while Jimmie’s spirits rose perceptibly, and Annie had 
never before seen him so witty or gay since ho came home 
from Washington as he was during the dinner. 

It was joy at his brother’s retuim, she thought, nevei 
•uspecting that Tom’s decision had anything to do with 


TOM’b RECEPTION. 


239 


it, and Jimmie hardly knew himself that it nad. He only 
felt relieved that Tom was not to receive a favor which 
had once been denied to himself, and glad also that An- 
nie was to spend the evening with them. But in this he 
was mistaken. There was no necessity for Annie’s defer- 
ring her visit. The serenade was not for her, and with 
(hat nice sense of propriety which prompted her to shrink 
from anything like intrusion, she felt that on this first 
night of their reunion, the Carleton family would rather 
be alone. This rule would apply also to Mrs. Simms, but 
Annie knew she was always welcome to the widow, and 
wishing to see the boy who had led her husband from the 
battlefield, she went to her room, and throwing on hei 
cloak and hood, stole quietly down stairs just as Jimmie 
was crossing the haU. He guessed where she was going, 
and coming quickly to her side, said, 

“ I supposed you had given up that caU, but if you per- 
sist in going, it must not be alone, this night of all others, 
when the streets are likely to be full of men and boys. 
You accepted my brother’s escort, you cannot, of course, 
refuse mine,” and seizing his hat from the haU stand he 
led her out upon the steps and placed her arm in his with 
an air of so much authority that Annie had no word to 
offer in remonstrance. 

It was not a very comfortable walk to either party, or 
a very sociable one either, but ere it was ended A n n ie 
had reason to be glad that she was not alone, for as 
Jimmie had predicted, the streets were full of men and 
boys, following the band up to the Mather Mansion, and 
as they met group after group of the noisy throng, ^Vnniii 
timidly drew closer to her companion, who i)ressed more 
tightly the arm trembling in his own. 

“ I am glad you came with me,” she said, when at last 
Uie friendly gleam of the widow’s candle appeared in 


2 ^ 


HOSE MATHER 


riew, “ but if you please I think you had better not go ir 
to-night. You are so much a stranger to the family, anc 
Mrs. Simms’ boys have but just retuimed. John wull 60€ 
me safely home, and I’ll excuse you now. You must fee. 
ftLxious to rejoin your brother.” 

But Jimmie was not to be disposed of so easily. He 
had no intention of entering the house, but he should 
wait outside, he said, until Annie’s visit was over. Annie 
had no alternative save submission, and parting from 
Jimmie at the gate, she hurried up the walk and was soon 
bending over the couch of the sick boy, whose eyes beam- 
ed the welcome his pale lips could scarcely speak. How 
many questions she had to ask him, and how much be 
had to tell her of that day when her husband received 
his fatal w’ound. Altogether it was a sad inter\uew, and 
Annie’s eyes were nearly blistered with the hot tears she 
shed while listening to Isaac’s touching account of George 
ere the woods were gained, and Tom Carleton generously 
gave up his seat to the bleeding man, thereby becoming 
himself a prisoner. Much, too, was said in praise of Tom, 
and Annie felt that she could not do too much for one 
who had shown himself so generous and brave. Talking ol 
Tom reminded her of Jimmie stalking up and dowm the 
icy walks, w^aiting patiently for her, and w^hen at last the 
music of Tom’s serenade had ceased she arose to go, 
wishing to get away ere the band came there, as she knew 
they were intending to do. As John arose to accompany 
her, she had to say that “ Jimmie Carleton was waiting 
for her by the gate.” Instantly the sharp eyes of the 
widow shot at her a curious glance, which brought the 
hot blood to her cheek, while John and Susan exchanged 
% smile, the meaning of which she could not fail to under- 
stand. Poor Annie ! How her heart throbbed with pain ai 
•he guessed of what they were thinking I Could they for a 


tom's reception. 


241 


moment believe her so heartless and cold ? The mere idei 
made her dizzy and faint, and scarcely articulating hei 
good-night, she hastened out into the cool night air, feel 
ing half tempted to refuse outright the arm offererl 
for her support. If she only dared tell him to leave hei 
Tihere alone,- -leave her to flee away through the dark, 
lonely streets to the still more lonely yard, where on 
.Oeorge’s grave she could lay herself down and die. Bui 
not thus easily could life’s heavy burden be shaken off 
she could not lay it down at wiU, — and conquering the 
emotions which, each time she thought of John Simms 
significant smile, threatened to burst out into a fierce 
storm of passionate sobs, she apologized for having kept 
Jimmie waiting so long, and taking his arm left the cot- 
tage gate just as the throng of serenaders tijrned into that 
street. Jimmie knew she had been crying, and conjec- 
turing that she had been talking of her husband, he, too, 
began to speak of George, asking her many questions 
about him, and repeating many things he had heard in his 
praise from the Kockland citizens. It seemed strange 
that this should comfort her, but it did. The hard, bitter 
feeling insensibly passed away while listening to Jimmie, 
and by the time the Mather Mansion was reached the 
tears were dried on Annie’s cheeks, and outwardly she 
was cheerful and patient as ever. 

After that night Rose had no cause for complaint that 
Jimmie was rude to Annie, or Annie cool toward him. 
for though -Annie talked to hina but little, she did not fot 
get the sympathy so dehcately manifested for her, and 
treated him with as much respect as she awarded Tom 
who grew each day more and more interested in th 
black -robed figure, reminding him so much of his losi 
Mary. Jimmie knew he did, and watched narrowly for 
the lime when she would know it, too ; but such time 


242 


ROSE MATHER. 


did not come, for Ann ie had no suspicion that either oi 
the brothers regarded her with the shadow of a feeling 
save that of ordinary friendship. As much of her time 
as possible was spent with the Widow Simms, and a great 
part of Isaac’s visible improvement was owing to her 
gentle care and the sunshine of her presence. John’s 
furlough had expired, and now that he was gone, the dis- 
consolate Susan turned to Annie for comfort, while Isaac 
watched daily for the sound of the little feet coming up 
the walk, and bringing with them so much happiness to 
the lonely cottage. 

“I wish you d stay home more ; we miss you so much, 
and it’s so dismal without you. Mother nods over 
her knitting, Tom just walks the floor, or reads some 
stiff Presbyterian book, while Jimmie thrums the piano 
and teases my kitten awfully,” Rose said to Amnie one 
night when the latter came in from a tour of calls, the 
last of which had been on IVIrs. Baker, uow a much hap- 
pier, better woman, than w^hen we first made her ac- 
quaintance. “ It’s so different when you are here,” Rose 
continued, as Annie came and sat down by her side. 
“ Tom is a heap more entertaining, while Jimmie is not 
half so mischievous and provoking.” 

did not supppse my absence could affect your hap- 
piness, or I would certainly have staid with you more,” 
Annie replied ; and Rose continued : 

“Well, it just does, and now that both Tom and Jimmie 
are going so soon, I shall need you to oversee the things 
I must got ready for them.” 

“ Captiiin Carleton and Jimmie going away soon I” 
Annie repeated, in some surprise. “Where are they 
going ? The Captain's furlough has not yet expired.” 

“ I know it,” Rose continued, “ but as he is perfactijf 


tom’s reception. 


24b 


well, he thinks it right to go back, and has fixed on one 
week from to-day.” 

“Yes, but Jimmie. You spoke of his leaving, too,’ 
innie said, and Rose rejoined: 

“ Jimmie is going with Tom to join the Federal Armj 
n the Po^mac, and, as he says, retrieve, if possible, th# 

! haracter he lost by turning traitor once.” 

“ Oh, I am so glad ! and I like him so much for that I" 
Annie exclaimed, her white face lighting up vrith a sud- 
den animation, which made it seem very beautiful to the 
young man just entering the door. 

“ I wov'ld brave the cannon’s mouth for another look 
like that,” was Jimmie’s mental comment as he stepped 
into the room, and advanced to the ladies’ side. “ So 
you are glad I am going ?” he said, half playfully, to An- 
nie, who answered frankly: 

; “ fes, very glad. ” 

“ ind won’t you miss me a bit? Folks like to be 
mi^iTed, you know, if they are ever so bad. It makes one 
j think better of himself, and consequently do better if he 
|i knows that his absence will cause a feeling of regret, how- 

I ‘' ever slight, to the friends left behind,” Jimmie remarked, 

while in his eyes there was a pecuhar expression which 
■1 Annie failed to see, as he stood looking down upon her. 

I She would miss Jimmie, she knew, for she had become 
r accustomed to his merry whistle, his ringing laugh, hig 
teasing jokes at Rose’s expense, and his going would 
*eave them very lonely, and so she frankly admitted, 
adding that “ it was not because she wished to be rid o1 
him that she was glad; it pleased her to see him in the 
path of duty, even though that path led to danger and 
possible death.” 

“ Oh, don’t, Annie, don’t talk of death to Jimmie 1’‘ 
Rose cried, with a shudder. “ You can’t begin to guesi 


244 


ROSE MATHER 


how it makes me feel, or how terrible it would seem il 
either he or Tom should die !” 

“ Can’t I ?” Annie asked, with such a depth of mourn* 
ful pathos, that Rose’s tears flowed at once. 

Of course Annie knew how it felt, and every fibre of 
tier heart was bleeding now, as she remembered one who 
left her as full of life and hope as either Tom or Jimmie, 
but who came back no more, save as the dead come back* 
shrouded and coffined for the grave. But Annie would 
not give way to her own feelings then. She would com- 
fort Rose, and encourage the young man, who, she felt, 
shrank from the perils spread out before him. So she 
told how few there were, comparatively, who died on the 
battle-field, while the chances for life in the hospitals were 
greater now that better care and skill had been pro- 
cured. 

Annie, — excuse me, Mrs. Graham ?” and Jimmie spoke 
vehemently, while his eyes kindled with a strange gleam. 
” Why don’t you go as nurse ? You might be the means 
of untold good to the poor fellows who need such care as 
you could give.” 

“ I have thought of it,” said Annie, while Rose ex- 
claimed: 

“ You turn hospital nurse, — ridiculous! You never 
shall, BO long as I can prevent it. Shall she, Tom?” 
And she appealed to the latter, who had just come in. 
“ Shall Annie go into those horrid hospitals ?” 

“ I am not IMrs. Graham’s keeper,” Tom replied, “ but 
[ should be sorry to see her acting in the capacity of 
hospital nurse, even though I know that some of our 
loblest, best women are engaged in that work.” 

“ Yes, old chap,” and Jimmie laughed a merry laugh. 
“ lt*B mighty easy talking that way now, but suppose you 
Captain Carleton, are some day among the terriblj 


tom’s reception. 


24f 


froiinded, thigh shot through, arm splintered above the 
elbow, jaw-bone broken, and all that, wouldn’t the pain 
be easier to bear, if the nurse should happen to be Mrs 
Graham, or somebody just like her ?” 

“Undoubtedly it would,” Tom answered. Still J 
should bo sorry to have her there amid the sickening 
horrors.” 

“ Please stop, I can’t bear to hear about it 1 ” Kose ex- 
claimed. “I know it would be nice to be a Florence 
Nightingale, and Annie would make a splendid one, but 
rU never let her go, unless you, or Jimmie, or Will are 
wounded, and then we’U come together, won’t we, 
Annie ?” 

There was no response from Annie, until Jimmie 
said: 

“ Say, Airs. Graham, if I am ever wounded, and you 
hear I am suffering in some dismal hole, will you come 
and care for me ?” 

He did not join Will’s or Tom’s name with his own. 
It was “Jimmie Carleton” whom Annie was to nurse. 
But it did not matter. Lifting uf) her head so that her 
soft, blue eyes looked into his, Annie answered, unhesi- 
tatingly: 

“Providence permitting, I will, and I would do the 
same for any brave fellow who follows, as my husband 
did, where duty to his country leads.” 

“ So you see you will fare no better than I, after all,” 
Tom laughingly rejoined, while Jimmie thought within 
himself: 

“Why need she always bring that husband in? It’s 
bad enough U know she’s had one, without eternally 
bearing about him.” 

Foolish Jimmie. It was foUy for him to lie awake 00 
long as he did that night, or to dream, when at last h€ 


246 


ROSE MATHER 


elei^t, of hospital walls expanding into a palace as as 
angel form with hair and eyes hke Annie’s bent over hia 
feverish pillow, while soft, white hands dressed soma 
gaping wound where the enemy’s bullet had been. Shee* 
folly, too, was it for “dignified old Tom,” to watch from his 
window the young moon, until it set in the western sky, 
thinking of Mary^ as he tried to make himself beheve, 
wondering why it was that Annie reminded him so much 
of her, and why he should be so deeply interested in one 
who, until a few weeks past, had been to him a stranger. 

To Annie, Captain Carle ton and Jimmie were nothing 
more than friends, and if, during the week preceding 
their departure, she was quite as busy as Eose, and ap- 
parently as much interested in the various preparations 
for their comfort, it was only because they were soldiers, 
and not, as Widow Simms once suggested to Susan, “be- 
cause they were Carletons, and handsome and rich, and, 
— and, — well, there’s no tellin’ what will happen, when a 
vvidder’s young and handsome, but this I know, Fve 
never married, and my man’s been dead this nineteen 
years ! Nobody need tell me she’d be so busy for any- 
body but them Carletons. If ’twas the (^ap’n, I wouldn’t 
mind, but that sassy -faced Jeems. Ugh !” and in her ire 
at Annie’s supposed preference for “ sassy-faced Jeems,” 
the widow spilled more than half of the spiced chocolate 
she was carrying to Isaac. 

Never was the widow more mistaken. Annie Graham 
would have done for Eli, John, and Isaac Simms, or pos-’ 
nbly Wilham Eaker, the same oflSces she was doing for 
* the Carletons,” and her voice would have been just afl 
sweet and hopeful when she bade them farewell, as it 
was that bright spring morning, when, in the parlor ol 
the Mather mansion, Tom and Jimmie were waiting to 
say good-bye. 


TOM*S RECEPTION. 


24 : 


At 1)116 very last moment Bill Baker had annoimted Lli 
Intention of going too. 

“ Thirteen dollars a month and dog*s fare was bettei 
than layin* round hum/’ he said; “and livin’ on the old 
gal, who was gittin’ most too straight and blue for his 
notions. Besides that, he felt kinder ’tached to the 
Corp’ral, and wanted to be where he could see him and 
wait on him like any other nigger.” 

Jimmie would gladly have dispensed with such a sin- 
gular attache, but Bill could not be shaken off, and as 
he did in various ways evince a strong regard for his 
former captive, Jimmie was forced to submit to what he 
termed “his thorn in the flesh,” giving from his own 
purse money for Billy’s outflt, and furnishing the mothei 
with means to repair her dwelling and make it far more 
comfortable than at present. This he was sure pleased 
Annie, and no sacrifice was too costly if it won her re- 
gard. She had prayed for him, he knew, for Bose had 
told him so, and prayers like hers, though they did not 
avail to save her George’s life, would surely shield him 
from danger. He should come back again when the war 
was over, — come back to find an older grave by Bock- 
land’s churchyard gate, while the wife, who daily watered 
that grave with tears, would be as young, as beautiful, 
and far more girlish-looking than now, when, in her 
widow’s weeds, she offered him her hand at parting, bid- 
ding God-speed to him and the noble Tom, who stood 
beside him. 

There were tears, and kisses, and blessings from Bose 
and her mother, a few low-spoken words of sympathy 
and good will from Annie, and then the two young men 
were gone. 

Half an hour later, and the eastern train thundered 
through the town, beaiing away to the fields of bloody 


248 


ROSE MATHER. 


carnage, three more young, rigorous lives, and leaving 
desolate two homes, one the lonely cottage where Bill’s 
mother wept alone, the other the Mather mansion, where 
Mrs. Carleton and Bose sobbed bitterly, while Aiinif 
•iroTe in various ways to comfort them. 


CHAPTER XX. 


AT THE MATHEK MANSION. 


Alia, T was very lonely at the Mather mansion after the 
departure of the soldiers, and it required all 



Annie’s tact to keep Bose from sinking entii’ely 
under the sense of desolation which crept over her as 
she began more and more to realize what the war meant, 
and to tremble for the safety of her husband and her 
brothers. They were still in Washington, but they 
might be ordered to advance at any moment ; and, in a 
tremor of distress, Bose waited and watched for every 
mail which could bring her tidings of them. Next to 
her husband’s letters, Jimmie’s did her the most good, 
for Jimmie had in his nature a world of hopefulness and 
humor ; and his letters were full of fim, and quaint des- 
cription of the life he was leading. And still of the three 
young men, — Will Mather, Tom Carleton, and Jimmie, — 
the latter suffered the most acutely, for in addition to his 
dislike of military life he was compelled to endure the 
jokes and jeers which the coarser and more unfeeling oi 
his comrades heaped upon him when, from Bill Baker, 
they heard that his first experience in arms-bearing had 
been learned in the army of the enemy. To one of Bill’s 


AT THE MATHER MANSION. 


24S 


instincts it seemed a great thing that he had captured 
and brought to Washington so illustrious a prisoner as 
the “ Corp’ral,” as he persisted in calling him, and thd 
story was repeated with such wonderful additions, that 
fimmie, when once by accident he was a listener to thi 
\filf. failed utterly to recognize himself in the chap whc 
had run sc many miles, from, and then fought so many 
hours withj the redoubtable BUI,” who, while annoying 
his quondam captive so terribly, still, under aU circum- 
stances, evinced for him an attachment as singular as it 
was sincere. Everything which he could do for Jimmie 
he did, becoming hterally his servant and drudge, and 
thus saving him from many a hardship which, as a pri- 
vate, he would otherwise have encountered. It was a 
fancy of Jimmie’s that by serving as a private in the 
army against which his hand had once been lifted, he 
should in some way expiate his sin, and, perhaps, be 
surer of winning favor from Annie Graham, whose blue 
eyes were constantly before him just as they had looked 
when, in her dress of black, she stood in the spring sun- 
shine, bidding him good-bye. Soon after his arrival in 
Washington, he had been offered a second lieutenancy in 
Captain Carleton’s company, but he steadily dechned the 
office, giving no explanation to any one except his 
brother and his sister Rose, to whom he wrote : 

‘ ‘ Perhaps I was foolish to decline the offer, and for a moment 1 
was horribly tempted to accept it, especially when, by doing so, I 
cjald to some degree escape my ‘ thorn in the flesh, ’ who, notwith- 
standing that he does me many a kindness, annoys me excessively. 
Bnt I conld not feel that I deserved that post. It ought to belong tc 
some one who had never spumed the Old Flag, and so I stood firm, 
anil suggested as a substitute that other Simms chap from Rocklano, 
Hophni, or Fhineas, or hanged if I know what his name is 

Any way, he is that crabbed widow’s son, that used to pucker hei 
mouth so when she saw ‘ that young r€b of a Oarleton,’ and suAtol' 

ll* 


250 


ROSE MATHER. 


Bway her gown for fear it should hit me. T reckon he’ll get thi 
office, with its twelve hundred a year, which he can use for bii 
mother’s support. One of her sons, you know, is married, and ai 
good as lost to her ; while that boy Isaac is not long for this world 
Prison life at Richmond did the business for him, or I’m mistaken 
80 let Eli be lieutenant, and James Carleton only a private. Do you 
think I did right, and wnll that paragon of yours, Mistress Graham, 
think so, too ?” 

This was what Jimmie wrote to Rose after he had beer 
gone for three or four weeks, and what Rose, with her 
usual impetuous thoughtlessness, read to her mother and 
Annie, who were both in her room when the letter came. 
Annie had made an attempt to leave, but Rose had insist- 
ed that there could be no secret in Jimmie^s letter. If 
there was, she would skip it, she said,* and she read on, 
stumbling dreadfully, and mispronouncing words, for 
Jimmie’s handwriting was never very plain : and this 
letter, written with a. soft lead pencil, -with a bit of slate- 
stone for a table, was his very worst. She made out, 
however, that he had declined the office of second lieute- 
nant because he thought he did not deserve it ; that he 
had named Eli Simms as a fitter person for it than him- 
self, and that he had called the widow a “ crab-appple,’ 
or something like it. All this was very clear ; and, after 
exclaiming against Jimmie’s morbid sense of justice in one 
breath, and pronouncing him “perfectly splendid” in 
another, she kept on till she reached the “paragon,” 
which she rendered “ Pequot,” making the sentence read, 
“Will that Pequot of yours. Mistress Graham, think I did 
right?” 

“ What did he call me ?” Annie exclaimed, her face 
turniilg very white, as she leaned toward Rose, who, 
startled at her vehemence, tried again to make out the 
wor i, which was strangely distorted, from the fact tha< 


AT THE ALATHEE MANSION. 


251 


jnst as Jimmie was writing it, his shadow, Bill, had struck 
him familiarly upon the shoulder, saying, with a laugh, 

“ Writin* to your gal, I s’pose? Give her Bill Baker’s 
regrets.” 

“It looks like Pequot, and some like Patagonian, 
Bose said, deciding at last that it was paragon^ and adding 
by way of an explanation to herself of Annie’s evident 
surprise, “ you did not like the idea of his calling you a 
Pequot, did you Annie ? It wouldn’t have meant anything 
if he had, and it was natural that I should make the 
blunder, for that’s the name he gave the young girl at the 
Pequot House, — the one he liked, and to whom he passed 
himself off as Dick Lee. You remember I told you about 
her.” 

“Yes, I remember,” and Annie’s voice was a little 
husky — “the little girl who was not happy with her aunt, 
and so hstened the more willingly to the boy’s kind win- 
ning words.” 

i^nnie did not know why she said t!’.at, unless it were 
wning from her by some sudden and bitter memory of 
what had been a bright sun-spot /n her cheerless child- 
hood. When the Pequot girl wae mentioned in her pre- 
sence once before, she had gathered that it was mostly 
Mrs. Caileton’s pride which had taken the boy away from 
any more rambles on the beach or moonlight sails upon 
the bay, and perhaps jt was a desire to defend and excuse 
the girl which prompted her to advance a reason why 
Dick Lee’s attentions had been so acceptable. She would 
have given much to recall her words, which made IVIrs. 
Carleton dart a quick, curious glance at her, while Bose 
exclaimed : “How do you know she was not happy with 
her aunt? Did Jimmie ever tell you about her ?” 

“ Never,” Annie replied, feeling glad that a servant ap 


252 


ROSE MATHER. 


pea red just at that moment, telling Rose a little girl 
in the kitchen asking to see her. 

It was a daughter of one of the soldiers whose mc-tbeji 
was sick and had sent to Mrs. Mather for some little del* 
icacy. Such calls were frequent at the Mather house, foi 
the soldiers did not receive their pay regularly, and theif 
was much destitution among their families, who, but foi 
Rose's liberality, would have suffered far more than thej 
did. As freely as water, her money was used to relieve 
their wants, and now, forgetting Jimmie and his Pequot, 
she entered at once into the little girl's story, and when 
told that the sick woman had expressed a wish to see her 
she said, “I'll go now ; there’s Jake just come in. I'U 
have him harness the horses and take you home. It must 
be a mile or more to your house.” 

Rose usually acted upon her impulses, and was soon 
in her carriage, with a huge basket at her feet and the 
little girl opposite, enjopng her ride so much, and enjoy- 
ing it the more for the unmistakable signs of envy and 
wonder which she detected in the faces of her compan- 
ions as she neared her humble home in the hollow. 
Rose had asked both her mother and Annie to accom- 
pany her, but they had declined, and for a time after 
Rose's departure they sat together in perfect silence, 
while a curious train of thought was passing through the 
minds of each. Annie's agitation when Rose read “ Pe- 
quot ” for “ paragon ” had surprised Mrs. Carleton, while 
what she had said of the girl and her aunt had awaken- 
ed a feeling of disquiet and suspicion. IVIrs. Carleton 
was proud of her own and her husband's family,->-proud 
of her wealth, and proud of her position. Not offen- 
sively so, but in that quiet, assured kind of way so na- 
tural to the highly bred Bostonian. It was thi» 


AT THE MATHER MANSION. 


258 


pride which had prompted her to resoii to so ex 
treme measui’es with the boy Jimmie, when she found 
how much he was interested in the little Pequot, and 
when, during Jimmie’s brief stay in Kockland, she, with 
a mother’s quick intuition, detected in him signs of inter- 
est in An n ie Graham, her pride again took fright, and 
she was half glad to have him go from the possible tempta- 
tion. Something in the nobler part of the woman’ s natiu e 
told her how wrong the feeling was, while each daj^ soma 
new development of Annie’s gentle Christian character, 
made the desolate young creature dearer to her. Thai 
she was superior to most people in her rank of life Mrs. 
Carleton knew, and she had more than once wondered 
how one like her had ever become the wife of a mechanic. 
She was not thinking of this, however, on the afternoon 
when she was alone with Annie, while Rose was away 
on her errand of mercy. She was thinking rather of the 
suspicion which had just found a lodgment in her mind, 
and was devising some means of testing its reality. To 
this end she at last made some casual remark about Rock- 
land andits people, asking if Annie had always lived there. 

“ Only since I was manned,” was the reply. And Mi-g. 
Carleton continued, 

“ You seem more like Eastern people than like a New 
Yorker. Were you born in New England?” 

“Yes, — in Connecticut,” Annie said. And then Mrs 
Carleton made a great blunder by asking next, 

“Were you bom in or near New London? I have 
been there several times, and may know your family.” 

At mention of New London Annie’s eyes flashed upon 
Mrs. Carleton with a startled look, as if she felt that 
there was a deeper meaning in the questioning to whict 
she was being subjected than appeared on the gurfece 
and her voice trembled a littlo as she replied. 


254 


ROSE MATHER. 


“1 was born in Hartford, and lived there till 1 wai 
sight years old, when my parents both died of cholera 
in one day, and I went to hve with my aunt in New 
Haven.” 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Carleton answered slowly. 

Thus far there was quite as much to prove as then 
^as to disprove the correctness of her surmise, and 
thinking to herself, 

“ I may as well go further now I have commenced with 
being rude,” she continued, “ Pai’don me, IVIrs. Graham, 
if I seem inquisitive, but I cannot help feeling interested 
in one to whom Rose is so greatly attached, and I do not 
remember that I ever heard any of your history before 
your husband went to war. I do not even know your 
maiden name.” 

Annie’s heart beat almost audibly, and her cheeks were 
very red, as she replied, 

“ My father was Dr. Howard, and I was Annie Louise 
Howard. Excase me, IMrs. Carleton, if I cannot talk 
much of my girl-hfe after my parents died. It was not 
a happy one. I was wholly dependent upon my aunt, 
who, while giving me every advantage in the way of edu- 
cation, kept before me so constantly the fact that I was 
an object of charity that it embittered every moment of 
my life, and when George offered me his love I accepted 
it gladly, finding in him the only real friend I had known 
since the day I was an orphan.” 

Annio was crying now, and excusing herself she left 
the parlor and repaired to her owm room, where her ex- 
ntement spent itself in tears and sobs as she recalled all 
the dreadful years when she was subject to the caprices 
of the most capricious of women, who had attempted tc 
force her into a marriage with a miUionnaire of sixty, 
»nd had driven her to accept the love which George Gra- 


AT THE MATHER MANSION. 


26 C 


ham had offered her. George had not bee» Lei eqaal io 
an intellectual point of view, and none knew this fact 
better than Annie herself. But he was the kindest, ten- 
derest of husbands, and she had loved him devotedly foi 
the manly virtues which made him the noble, unselfish 
man he was. Capt. Carleton and Jimmie both could 
sympathize with her tastes and inclinations far better 
than George had done; but never once during her brief 
married life had she allowed herself to wonder what her 
lot might have been had it been cast with people like the 
Carletons. And since her husband’s death anything 
which looked away from that grave by the churchyard 
gate seemed so terrible to her that now, as she recalled 
Mrs. Carleton’s questionings, and guessed what had 
prompted them, every nerve quivered with pain, which 
could only be soothed by a visit to George’s grave. 
There, on the turf which covered him, she had wept out 
many a grief, and she started for it now, the viUagera 
watching her as she passed their doors, and curiously 
speculating, as people will, upon the time to come when 
the long black dress and graceful, girlish form would not 
be so often seen among the Rockland dead. 

Already the gossips of the town were coupling her 
name with the Carletons, the majority giving her to Tom, 
the elder, and more worthy of the two. A whisper of this 
gossip had been borne to Mrs. Carleton, who, while pre- 
tending to ignore it, had felt troubled as she recalled aH 
the incidents of Jimmie’s visit at home. Then, when 
the suspicion came to her that the woman whom Bose 
had taken into her household was possibly identical with 
the girl of New London, whose name she could not re- 
member, she felt for a moment greatly disturbed. There 
was a fierce struggle with her pride, a close reasoning 
with herself, and then her better nature triumphed, and 


256 


ROSE MATHER 


her heart went out very kindly toward poor Annie, at 
that moment standing by her husband’s grave, and won 
dering why her thoughts would keep straying a'way tc 
the wayward young man who had been a traitor to hie 
country, but was trying to atone by voluntarily bearing 
the hardships of a private’s life when a better was offered 
him. He had asked if she would think he did right, and 
the question had shown that he cared for her good opin- 
ion. Yes, she did think he was right, and she resolved 
to send him a message to that effect when Rose wrote to j 
him next. There was no wrong to the dead in the | 
thought, and her tears dropped just as fast upon the ] 
marble as she stooped to kiss the name cut upon it and 
then left the silent graveyard. , 

Meantime Rose had visited her sick woman in the Hoi 
low, — had fed the hungry children, and dropped upot ; 
the floor the six weeks baby which she tried to hold, 
then, gathering her shawl about her and holding up her 
skirts, just as she always did when in the homes of the 
poor, she re-entered her carriage and bade Jake drive 
her next to Widow Simms’. 

Everything there was neat and clean as soap and 
sand and the widow’s two hands could make it, while i 
Susan made a very pretty picture, in her dark stufl ^ 
gown with the scarlet velvet ribbon in her black j 
hair. There was a saucer of English violets on the ■ 
round deal table, and their sweet perfume filled the ' 
•xjom into which Rose came dancing, her eyes shining i 
Jike stars, and her cheeks so brilliant a color that the i 
widow began directly to wonder ‘‘if there wasn’t seme | 
paint there.” ' 

The widow was not in her best mood, for she was verj ] 

tired, having done a heavy washing in the morning be- \ 

fore Rose Mather had thought of opening her bright i 


AT THE MATHER MANSION. 


J57 


ejes; then, after the coarser, larger pieces were dried 
and ironed, she had tried to spin, a work to which she 
clung as tenaciously as if on every stream in New England 
there were not a cotton or woolen factory capable of do 
ing the work so much easier and better than hei self, 
i’he widow was fond of spinning, and she had tiuned 
the wheel with a right good will, until Isaac had com- 
plained that the continuous humming hurt his head, and 
made him think of the wind as it howled so dismally 
around the dreary prison in Richmond. Libby, they 
called it now, and Isaac always shuddered when he heard 
the name and thought of what he suffered there. 

Isaac was very weak and pale, and his face looked Hke 
that of some young girl as he lay among his pillows, in 
the pretty dressing-gown which Rose had bought and 
.\jinie had made for him. He was sleeping when Rose 
came in, and the widow’s “ Hsh-sh,” came warningly as 
a greeting, but came too late, for Rose’s blithesome voice 
had roused him, and his glad, welcoming smile more than 
counterbalanced the frown which settled on the widow’s 
face when she saw her boy distm*bed. Rose was accus- 
tomed to the widow’s ways, and throwing off her shawl and 
untying her hat, she sat down on the foot of Isaac’p 
bed, and drawing Jimmie’s letter from her pocket be- 
gan: 

“I’ve got such splendid news for you, IVIrs. Simms, — at 
least, I think I have. Yes, I know it’s sure to come true. 
Eli is going to be a lieutenant, with twelve hundred dol- 
lars a year. Such a heap of money for him; and it’s ah 
Jimmie’s doings, too. He would not have the c ffice be- 
cause he did not think he deserved it. Listen tc what he 
says.” 

Both the Widow and Susan were close to Rose now 
the frown aU gone from the widow’s brow, and the puck 


258 


ROSE MATHER. 


er from her mouth; but both came back In a trice, as 
blundering Eose read on about “ Hophni,” and ‘‘ Phi 
neas/’ and “Eli,” till she came to the crabbed** whick 
she called “ crab-apple** and then stopped short, her face 
a perfect blaze, as she tried to apologize. 

“ ’Tain’t wuth while to soap it over,” the widow said, 
fiercely. “ I a crab-apple, I s’pose, and a gnarly one 
at that, but I am as I was made, and I’d like to know il 
crabs wan’t as good as Secessioners.** 

“ Please, mother, never mind,” Isaac said, pleadingly, 
and his voice always quieted the fiery woman, who lis- 
tened while Eose read of Eli’s good fortune, and made 
another terrible mistake by stumbling upon Jimmie’s 
opinion of Isaac’s sickness. 

She only read, “He is not long for this world,” but 
that was enough to bring a flush to his brow, and 
blanch his mother’s cheek; "while, with a gush of tears, 
Eose hid her face in Susan’s lap, and sobbed : 

“ I wish I had not come. I’m always doing wrong 
when I mean to do the best. Oh, I wish the war had 
never been, and I don’t believe Isaac is so sick. Jimmie 
has no right to judge. He don’t know.” 

Eose’s distress was too genuine not to touch the wid- 
ow, who tried to appear calm and unconcerned, and even 
said something kind of Jimmie, who had so generously 
preferred Eli to himself. But there was a restraint over 
everything, and, after a few awkward attempts at some 
thing like natural conversation, Eose bade a hasty good 
bye, and went out from the house to which she had 
brought more sorrow than joy. 


HOT LONG FOR THIS WORLIX 


269 


CHAPTER XXL 
“not long for this world/ 

sick boy whispered the words a great 
times to himself, as with hi-s face to the wall, 
>1^ ^ where neither his mother nor Susan could see it, 
ue thought of what Rose *had read, and wondered it it 
were true. He was not afraid to die. He had been very 
near death once before, and had not shiiink from meet 
ing it as death. It was only the dying from home he 
had dreaded so much, asking to live till he could see his 
mother again, and the grass growing by the cottage 
door, and the violets by the well. And God had taken 
him at his word. He had lived to see his mother, to feel 
the touch of her rough hands upon his hair; to hear her 
voice, always kind to him, calling him her “Iky boy;” 
to see the green grass by the door, and the violets by 
the well. But this, alas I did not suffice. He wanted to 
live longer, — live to be a man, like Eli and John; live to 
do good; live to take care of his mother; live to hear the 
notes of victory borne on the northern breeze, as the 
Federal Flag floated again over land and sea. All this 
was worth living for, and Isaac was young to die, — only 
nineteen, and looking three years younger. It was very 
haid, and the dark eyelashes closed tightly to keep back 
the tears as the white Hps tried to pray, “ Thy will be 
done.” That was what they meant to utter, but there 
came instead the first words of the prayer the Savioui 
taught, ‘'Our Father I” that was all; but the very name 
of father brought a deep peace into Isaac’s heart. 

God was his father, and he had nothing to feai ; living 
or dying, it would be well with the boy who would not 


260 


BOSE MATHER. 


tell a lie even for promotion. And so, wMle the mother 
whose heart ached and throbbed with this new fear, and 
still found time to feel a thrill of pride in Lieutenant Eli 
moved softly ai’ound the room, preparing the dainty sup 
per for her child, Isaac slept peacefullj^ nor woke until 
the delicate repast was ready, and waiting for him on 
me little table by the bed. There was spiced chocolaU 
to-night, and nice cream toast, with grape jelly, and a 
bit of cold baked chicken, and the highly-seasoned cu- 
cumber pickles Isaac had craved so much since his ro- 
tm*n, and which the physician said were good for him. 
And the best china cup was brought out, and the silvei 
spoons marked with the widow’s maiden name, and a 
white napkin w'as on the tray; and Isaac, who enjoyed 
such things, knew why it was aU done that particular 
night, just as the widow knew why, at bed-time, he asked 
Susan to read from Revelation, vii. 16, “ They shall hun- 
ger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sur 
light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in 
the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead 
them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall 
wipe away all tears from their eyes.” 

He was thinking of his heavenly home, while thr 
mother was thinking of the time when he, who Jimmie 
Carleton had said “ was not long for earth,” would be 
gone, and she could no longer do for him the little offices 
which gave her so much comfort. Since the dreadful 
days when she knew her boy was in prison, the widow 
had not felt so keen a pang as that which stirred hei 
heart-strings now, when alone in her room she dropped 
in her quick, defiant way into the high-backed chair, and 
Bittiug stiff and straight, tried to face the futui’a 
It could not be that Isaac had only come home to die,— 
God would not deal thus harshly with her. He had 


NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLIX 


261 


ipared Eli and John, He had promoted them both, 
and He would not take Isaac from her. The bey waa 
getting better, he was mending every day, or, at least, 
she had thought so, until Kose Mather came with her 
message of evil. MTiy could not Eose have stayed at 
home? Why need she come there and leave such a 
iting behind ? The widow was growing very hard and 
wicked toward poor little thoughtless Eose, and her 
heart lay like a stone in her bosom, as for an hour or 
more she sat in her high-backed chair, thinking of the 
boy whose low breathings she could hear from the next 
room. He was sleeping, she thought, and she would steal 
softly to his side and see if it was written on his face 
that his days were numbered. But Isaac was not asleep, 
and he knew the moment his mother bent over him, and 
turning toward her, he whispered, 

“ I know why you are up so late, mother; and what 
you are here for. You are thinking of what Mrs. Carle- 
ton said, and wondering if it is time. I guess ’tis, moth- 
er, for I don’t get any stronger, and my cough hui’ts me 
so. But I’m not a bit afraid to die now, with you beside 
me up to the very last minute. In Eichmond it was dif- 
ferent: and I prayed so hard that God would let me 
come back, if only to drink from the well and then die 
on the grass beside it. He did let me come, and now 
we mustn’t say anything if He does not let me stay but a 
little bit of a while. I’ve been thinking it over sinoe 
Mrs. Mather went away, and at first it seemed hard that 
Eli and John should both have such good luck, and only 
Stub,’ be the one to suffer.” 

He said this last playfully, using his old nickname c 
•' Stub,” because he saw by the dim light burning on the 
Uble the bitter look of anguish upon his mother’s face, and 
he would fain remove it. At the ment'en of the namo 


262 


ROSE MATHER. 


which her more stalwart sons had given to her baby, the 
widow’s chin quivered, and her rough hand smoothed 
the thin light hair, but she did not speak, and Isaac 
went on: 

“ Then, too, I want to live till the war is over. I waul 
0 hear the joyful shouts, and see the bonfires they wil' 
Kindle in the streets. There’s a big box in the barn. 1 
hid it there the morning I went away, and I said whet 
the peace comes we can burn that box, and mother will 
look out from the window, and the church beUs will ring, 
and there’ll be such rejoicings. Now I ’most know I shan’t 
be here to see it. But, mother, you’ll burn the box, — you 
and Susan, with EU and John, — and you’ll think of me, 
who did what I could to bring the i^eace.” 

There was a choking sound like the swallowing of a 
great sob, and that was all the answ er the widow made; 
only her hands moved faster through the threads of light 
browm hair, and her rigid form sat up straighter, more 
rigid than ever. She was suffering the fiercest pangs she 
would ever know, for she was giving Isaac up. She was 
coming to the knowledge that he w^as really going from 
her, — that Jimmie Carleton was right, and Isaac was not 
long for this world. When at last her mind reached that 
point, the tension of neiwe gave way for a little, and her 
hot tears poured over the white face she kissed so ten 
derly. 

The moon was looking in at the low west window ere 
the widow went back to her own bed, and Isaac, nestling 
lewn among his pillows, fell away to sleep, dreaming ol 
the bonfire in the street, when the hidden box was burn- 
ed, and dreaming too, of that other world which lies so 
near this that he could almost see the loving hands 
•tretched out to welcome him. 

After that night the widoVs mouth shut togethei 


/ 


NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD. 


268 


more firmly than ever, and the frown between her eyes 
was more marked and decided, while her mann.er to all save 
Isaac and Annie Graham was sharper, and crisper than 
before. When Eli’s letter came telling of his promotion 
and lauding Jimmie Carleton, whose generous act was a 
by-word in the company, her face relaxed a little, and she 
said to Annie Graham: “The Lord is good to my two 
oldest boys, but if he’d give me Isaac I wouldn’t care 
for all the titles in Christendom.” 

As the warm weather came on, Isaac did not get up any 
more to sit by the open door, but lay all day on his bed, 
sometimes sleeping, sometimes thinking, and sometimes 
listening while Annie read to him from the Bible. Isaac 
was very fond of Annie. She had been George Gra^ 
ham’s wife, and he evinced so much desire to have her 
constantly with him that at last she stayed altogether 
with Mrs. Simms, only going occasionally to the Mather 
Mansion, where they missed her so much. Rose was 
nothing without her, and had at first opposed her going 
to the Widow Simms. 

“ If help was needed,” she said, “ she would hire some 
one, for Annie must not tire herself out just as she was 
beginning to grow plump and beautiful again.” 

But when Isaac said to her: “Please let Mrs. Graham 
come; it will not be long she’ll have to stay, and she is so 
fuU of hope and faith that it makes me more willing to 
die and to go away alone across the Jordan,” she with- 
drew her opposition, and Annie was free to go and come 
ikS she liked. It suited Annie to get away from the Ma- 
iher Mansion just then, for she could not help feeling 
that there was a purpose in Mrs. Carleton ’s questioning 
er of her early history, and she hailed any excuse which 
removed her from the scrutiny with which since thal 
oonversation touching her early home and maiden pam« 


264 


fiOSE MATHER. 


Mrs. Carletv>ii had evidently regarded ner. Jimmie had 
written to her once, inclosing the unsealed note in a let- 
ter to Hose, and Annie’s cheeks had been all ablaze as she 
road it, for she knew the mother’s eyes were fastened 
Qpon her. It was nothing but a simple acknowledgment 
of some article Annie had made and sent to him in a box 
filled for all three of the soldiers. Will Mather, Tom and 
Jimmie. There was also mention made of Annie’s kind- 
ly message, to the intent that she did think he was right 
in giving the office to Eli, and a wish expressed that she 
would write to him. 

“You don’t know how much good letters from home do such 
Bcamps as we privates are, or how werneed something from the civil- 
ized world to keep us from turning heathens.” 

Tom, too, had sent thanks to Annie Graham for the 
needle-book made for him, but he did not write to her, 
though every letter had in it more or less of “Mrs Gra- 
ham,” and Mrs. Carleton, while saying to herself: “Both 
my boys have fallen under the spell,” felt her pride 
gradually giving way and her heart growing warmer to- 
ward the woman whom she missed so much during the 
wei'ks spent at Isaac’s bedside. 

They were not many, for when the dry days of August 
came on, and the grass withered by the door, and the 
flowers drooped for want of rain, and the sun rose each 
morning redder, hotter, than on the previous day, the 
«ick boy began to fail rapidly, and one night, just as 
tlie wind was beginning to blow from the west, where 
& bank of dark clouds was lying, he whispered to An 
aiB : 

“ GaU mother and Susan, for I know I am going now.* 

The widow was in the back yard, putting out the bar- 
rels and tubs to catch the rain if it came, for the well 


NOT LONG FOlt THIS WORLD. 


286 


fcnd the cistern were nearly dry, just as her dim eyes 
wore, when a few minutes after she bent over her boy^ 
and saw the change coming so rapidly. She could not 
weep, and Susan’s sobs annoyed her. “ ’Twas like them 
lliiggleses to go into hysterics and make a fuss,” sho 
thought, with a kind of bitter scorn for her daughter-in 
law, who loved Isaac as a brother, and wept that he was 
teaming them. Perhaps the dying boy detected the feel- 
ing, for he said, feebly: 

“ Go out, Susan and I^Irs. Graham both. I want to 
be alone with mother a minute.” Then when they were 
alone, he said: “I am dying, mother, and I know you 
won’t be angry at what I say. I want you to be kind to 
Susan, and pet her some and love her for John’s sake. 
She is a good girl, and Mr. Carleton’s good too, the one 
they call Jimmie, I mean. Don’t say harsh things of him 
because he was once a rebel. Don’t speak against him to 
Mrs. Graham. Maybe she will like him sometime, and if 
BO, help her, mother, instead of hindering it.” 

Jimmie Carleton, on his lone picket-watch that night 
on the banks of the Potomac, and thinking, alas ! more 
of a black-robed 'figui*e, with braids of pale-brown hair, 
than of a lurking foe, little dreamed of the good word 
spoken for him by the dying boy, whose eyes turned 
lovingly to Annie when she came back to him, and held 
his clammy hand. 

“It is not dark; it is not hard; I am not afraid, for 
the Saviour is with me,” he kept repeating, and then he 
Bent messages to his absent brothers, — to Captain Tom 
Carleton, whe had been so kind to him in prison, and to 
Jimm:e too, and all the boys who had been with linn in 
battle, and then, just as the wind began to roar down 
the chimney, and the refreshing rain to beat against the 
windows, Isaac’s spirit went out into the great unknown 


266 


ROSE MATHER. 


expanse beyond this life, and only the pale, emaciat-ed 
body was left in the humble room, where the lone women 
stood looking upon the boyish face, which seemed sc 
foung in death. 

The widow uttered no sound when she knew he wa* 
ead, and it was her hand which drew the covering de- 
oently about him, and then picked up from the floor a 
loo^e feather j which had dropped from the worn pillow. 

Susan must speak to their next-door neighbors, she 
said, and ask them to care for the body. Then, when 
the men came in, she remembered an open window in 
the back chamber where the rain must be driving in, 
and stole up there on the pretence of shutting it; but she 
did not return till the men were gone, and Isaac was ly- 
ing on the cahco- covered lounge with a look of perfect 
peace upon his face, and the damp night air blowing 
softly across his light hair. 

Kneeling at his side, and laying her hard cheek against 
the icy face of her last-born, the mother gave vent to her 
grief in her own peculiar way. There were no tears, or 
sobs; but loving, tender, cooing words whispered ovei 
the boy, as if he had been a living baby, instead of a sol- 
dier dead. And yet the fact that it was a soldier, lying 
there before her, was never lost sight of, and the bitter 
part of the woman’s nature was stirred to its very depths 
as she remembered what had brought her boy to this. 
It was the war. And fierce were the mental denuncia- 
tions against those who had stiiTed up the strife, while 
with the bitterness came pitying thoughts of the poor 
boys who died in the lonely hospitals, or on the battle- 
fields; and with her cheek still resting against the pale, 
clammy one, and her fingers threading the light hair, the 
widow vowed that all she was, and all she had, should 
henceforth be given to the war. She would work for th« 


NOT LONG FOR THIS WOIOJ). 


267 


soldiers, give to the soldiers:,, deny herself food and rai- 
ment for the soldiers; aye, even die for them, if need be 
and whispering the vow into her dead boy’s ear, she left 
him there alone, just as the early summer dawn was break 
ing. And when, next morning, her friends came in tc 
$ee her, they found her sitting by the body, and working 
apon the shu’t she had a few days before taken from thf 
Aid Society to make for some poor wretch. 

She should not wear mourning, she said. She had 
other uses for her money; and so the leghorn of many 
years’ date, with the old faded green veil, followed Isaac 
Simms to the grave, and the widow’s face was still and 
stony as if cut from soHd marble. 

They made him a great funeral, too, though not so 
j^eat as George Graham’s had been; for Isaac was not 
^he second, nor the third, nor the fourth soldier buried 
m Kockland’s churchyard. But he was Isaac Simms , — 
‘Little Ike,” — “Stub,” — whom everybody liked; and so 
the firemen came out to do him honor, and the Kockland 
Guards, and the comimny of young lads who were be 
ginning to drill, and the boys fi-om the Academy, h,nd 
Rose Mather was chief directress, and her carriage car- 
ried the widow, and Susan, and Annie, and herself up to 
the newly-made grave, where they left the boy who once 
had sawed wood for the little lady now paying him such 
honor. 

The war was a great leveler of rank, bringing together 
in one conimon cause the high and the low, the rich and 
the poor, and in no one was this more strikingly seen 
than in the case of Rose Mather, who, utterly forgetful of 
the days when, as Rose t’arleton, of Boston, she wouid 
scarcely have deigned to notice such as the Widow 
Bimms, now sought in so many wa^^s to comfort the 
Btrickcn woman, going every day to her humble home. 


268 


HOSE MATnER. 


and once coaxing her to sj^end a day at the Mattel 
mansion, together with Susan, whom Rose secret! j 
thought a httle insipid and dull. Susan's husband was 
ilive, and in the full flush of prosperity; so Susan did 
aot need sympathy, but the widow did, and Rose got 
her up to the “ Great House,” as the widow called it, 
4nd ordered a most elaborate dinner, with soups and 
fish, and roasts and salads, prepared with oil, which 
kirned the widow’s stomach, and ices and chocolate, and 
Charlotte-russe, and nuts and fruit, and cofiee served in 
cups the size of an acorn, the widow thought, as very red 
in the face and perspiring at every pore, she went 
through the dreadful dinner which lasted nearly three 
hours, and left her at its conclusion, “ weak as water, 
and sweatin’ hke rain,” as she whispered to Annie, who 
took the tired woman for a few moments into her own 
room, and listened patiently to her comments upon the 
grand dinner which had so nearly been the death of her. 

Susan, on the contrary, enjoyed it. It was her first 
glimpse of life among the very wealthy, and while her 
mother-in-law was wondering “ how Annie could stand 
such doin’s every day, and especially that ’bominable 
scup, and still wus sdut ” Susan was thinking how she 
should like to live in just such style, and wondering if, 
when John came home with his wages all saved, she 
could not set up housekeeping somewhat on the Mather 
order. At least she would have those little coffees after 
iinner ; though she doubted John’s willingness to sit 
piietly until the coffee was reached. 

It was a long day to the widow, and the happiest part 
J it was the going homo by the cemetery, where she 
•stopped at Isaac’s grave, and bending over the turf, 
murmured her tender words of love and sorrow for the 
boy who slept beneath. There was a plan forming in 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. 269 

the widow’s mind, and it came out at last to innie, who 
was visiting her one day. 

The hospitals were full to overflowing, and the cry all 
along the lines was for more help to care for the sick 
and dying, and the widow was going as nurse, either ii 
the hospital or in the field. She should prefer the lat 
ter, she said, “ for only folks with pluch could stand it 
there.” 

An l Annie encouraged her to go, and even talked ol 
going too, but the first suggest! oi. of the plan brought 
such a storm of opposition from Kose, that for a little 
time longer Annie yielded, resolving, however, that ere 
long she would break away and take her place where 
she felt that she could do more good than she was doing 
’n Rockland. 


CHAPTER 



THE WOUNDED 80LDIEB. 

ibow SBIMS was going to the army, and Jim. 
mie Carleton, who was coming home for a few 
weeks, was to be her escort to Washington. 
During the summer Jimmie had seen a good deal of hard 
service. He had been in no general battle, but had 
taken part in several skirmishes and raids, in one ol 
which he received a severe flesh wound in his arm, 
which, together with a sprained ankle, confined him for 
a time to the hospital, and finally procured for him a 
furlough of three or four weeks. Rose was delighted, 
and this time the Federal Fag was actually floating from 
the cupola of the Mather mansion in honr.r of Jimmie’s 
return * but there was no crowd at the depot to wel- 


270 


ROSE MATEtER. 


come him. That custom was worn out, and only thi 
Mather carriage was waiting for Jimmie, whose right 
arm was in a sling, and whose face looked pale and thin 
from his recent confinement in hospital. Altogether he 
was very interesting in his character as a wounded sol- 
dier, Kose thought, as she made an impetuous rush at 
him, nearly stranghng him with her vehement joy at 
having him home again. And Jimmie was very glad to 
see her, — glad, too, to meet his mother, — but his eyes 
kept constantly watching the door, and wandering down 
the hall, as if in quest of some one who did not come. 
During the weary days he had passed in the George- 
town Hospital, Annie Graham’s face had been constant- 
ly with him, and as he watched the tall, wiry figure of the 
nurse, who always wore a sun-bonnet and had a pin be- 
tween her teeth, he kept wishing that it was Annie, and 
even worked himself into a passion against his sister 
Rose, who, in one of her letters, had spoken of Annie’s 
proposal to ofier herself as nurse, and her violent oppo- 
sition to the plan. 

“ If Rose had minded her business Annie might possi- 
bly have been in this very ward, instead of that ola 
maid from Massachusetts, who looks for all the world 
like those awful good women in Boston, who don’t wear 
hoops, and who distribute tracts on Sundays in the 
vicinity of Cornhill. Why can’t a woman look decent, 
and distribute tracts, too ? Annie, in her black dress, 
with her hair done up somehow, would do more good to 
us poor invalids than forty strong-minded females in 
paste-board bonnets, with an everlasting pin between 
their teeth.” 

Thus Jimmie fretted about Rose, and the Massachu- 
setts woman, who, in spite of her big pin and paste* 
board bomiet, brought him many a nice dish of tea oi 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIER 


271 


bowl of soup, until the order came for liim to go home^ 
when, with an alacrity which almost belied the languor 
and weakness he had complained of so bitterly, he packed 
Lis -vahse and started again for Rockland. This time he 
wore the “army blue;” but the suit which at first had 
been so fresh and clean, was soiled, and worn, and hate 
ful to the fastidious young man, who only endured it be* 
cause he fancied it might in some way commend him to 
Annie Graham. Rose had written that she worshiped 
the very name of a soldier, especially if he were a poor 
private, her sympathies being specially enlisted for that 
class of people. And Jimmj^j was a poor private, and a 
wounded one at that, with his arm in a shng, and a cane 
in his hand, and his curly hair cut short, and his coat 
all wrinkled and soiled, and his knapsack on his back ; 
and he was going home to Annie, who surely would wel- 
come him now, and hold his hand a moment, and possi- 
bly dress his wound. That would be delightful ; and 
Jimmie’s blood went tingling through his veins as he felt 
in fancy the soft touch of Annie’s fingers upon his flesh, 
and saw her head crowned with the pale-brown hair 
bending over him. He felt a little disappointment that 
she was not at the depot to meet him, while his chagrin 
increased at the tardiness of her appearance after his 
arrival home, but she was coming at last, and Jimmie’s 
quick ear caught the rustle of her garments as she came 
down the stairs and into the room, smiling and blushing, 
as she took his offered hand, and begged him not to rise 
for her. 

“You are lame yet, I see. I had hoped your ankle 
might be well,” she said, glancing at his cane, which h 
carried more from habit, and because it had been given 
liim by an officer, than from any real necessity. 

His sprained ankle ivas almost well, and only troubled 




ROSE MATHER. 


him at times; but after Annie’s look of commiseration at 
the cane, and her endent intention to pity him for hii 
ankle rather than his arm, he found it vastly easy to b€ 
lame again, and even made some excuse to cross thfe 
"ooin in order to show off the limp which had not beei 
very perceptible when he first came in. And Annie wai 
very sorry for him, and inquired with a gi’%at deal of 
interest into the particulars of his being wounded, and 
kindly sat where ho could look directly at her, and 
thought, alasl how much he was changed from the 
fashionably-dressed, saucy-faced young man who went 
from them only a few months before. Short hair was 
not becoming to him, — neither was his thin, burnt face, 
— neither was that soiled blue coat; and he looked as 
little as possible hke a hero whom maidens could wor- 
ship. Some such thought passed through Annie’s mind, 
while Rose, too, felt the change in her handsome brother, 
and, with a puzzled expression on her face, said to him, 
as she stood by his side: 

“ How queer you do look, with j^our hair so short, and 
the hollows in your cheeks! Does war change all the 
boys so much? Are Tom and WiU such frights?” 

“ Rose !” ^li-s. Carleton said, reprovingly, whdo Annie 
looked up in surprise, pitying Jimmie, whose chin quiv- 
ered even more than his voice, as he said : 

Tom and Will have not been sick like me; and then, 
— there’s no denying it, — officers have easier times, as a 
general thing, than privates. I do not mean, by that, 
that I regi-et my position, for I do not. Somebody must 
take a private’s place, and it would better be I than i 
great many others; but. Rose, I shall regret it, jerhapg, 
If by the means my looks become obnoxious to my sistei 
and friends.” 

There was a marked emphasis on the word friends, and 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIEK. 


271 


Jimmie’s eyes went over appealingly to Annie, who re 
membered how proud the boy Dick Lee used to be of hie 
beauty, and guessed how Rose’s remarks must La\€ 
wounded him. Rose suspected it, too, and winding liei 
arms around his neck she tried to apologize. 

“ Forgive me, Jimmie,” she said; “ I did not meaL 
luytliing; only your hair is so short, — ^just like the con- 
victs at Charlestown, — and your coat is so tumbled and 
dirty; but Hannah can wash that, or I can buy you a 
new one,” and Rose stumbled on, making matters ten 
times worse, until IMrs. Carleton succeeded in turning 
the conversation upon something besides her son’s per- 
sonal appearance. 

Annie was very sorry for him, and her sympathy ex- 
pressed itself in the soft light of her blue eyes which 
rested so kindly upon him, and in the low, gentle cadence 
of her voice when she addressed him, and her eager 
haste to bring him whatever she thought he wanted, and 
so save him the pain of walking I 

Mrs. Carleton saw through that ruse at once. She had 
noticed no limp when Jimmie first came in, and she 
readily suspected why it was put on. But it was not for 
her to expose her son. From a lady who had spent a 
few days at the Mather House, and who once lived near 
Hartford, Mi's. Carleton had learned that the Dr. How- 
ard, who had died of cholera in ’49, was highly respected, 
both as a gentleman and a practising ph^'sician, and this 
had helped to reconcile her in a great measure to what- 
ever might result from her son’s evident iking for An- 
'ue Graham, nee Annie Howard, and as she more than 
alf suspected, the heroine of Jimmie’s boyish fancy. 

How very beautiful Jimmie thought Annie was, after 
be had had time to recover himself a little and look at her 
closely. She was in better health, and certainly in bet 


274 


ROSE MATHER. 


ter spirits than when he saw her last. Her cheeks wer* 
rounder, her eyes were brighter, and hei hair more lux* 
oriant, and worn more in accordance with the prevailing 
style. This was Hose’s doings, as was also the increased 
length of Annie’s dress, which swept the floor with so 
long a trail that the Widow Simms had made it the sulv 
)ect of sundry invidious remarks. 

“ Needn’t tell her that a widder could wear such long 
switchin’ gowns, and think just as much of the grave by 
the gate. She knew better, and Miss Graham was be- 
ginnin’ to get frillicky. She could see through a mill- 
stone.” 

This was Mrs. Simms’ opinion of the long gored dress 
which Jimmie noticed at once, admiring the graceful, 
symmetrical appearance it gave to Annie’s figure, just as 
he admired the softening effect w^hich the plain white 
collar and cuffs had upon Annie’s di-ess. When he was 
home before, everything about her was black of the deep- 
est dye ; but now the sombreness of her attire was 
relieved somewhat, and Jimmie liked the change. He 
could look at her without seeing constantly before him 
the grave by the churchyard gate, where slept the man 
whose widow she was. She did not seem like a widow, 
»he was so young ; only twenty-one, as Jimmie knew 
from Rose, who, delighted with the friendly meeting be- 
tween her brother i4ud friend, was again building castles 
of what might be. Could Rose have had her choice in the 
matter, she would have selected Tom for Annie. He 
was ol ier, steadier, while his letters seemed very much 
Uke Annie. Tom had found the Saviour of whom Isaac 
Simms once talked so ( arnestly in the prison house at 
Richmond. He was better than Jimmie, Rose reasoned, 
and more likely to suit Annie. Still, if it were to be 
•otherwise, she was satisfied, and in a quiet way slie aided 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIER 


27C 


Mid abetted Ji mmi e in all his plans to be frequently alon6 
with Annie. It was Annie who rode with him whet 
Mrs. Carleton was indisposed, and Rose did not care tt 
— Annie who read to liim the books which Rose pro* 
Qounced too stupid for anything, — Annie who brought 
his cane, and Annie who finally attended to his wounded 
arm. The physician did not come one day; Mrs. Carle 
ton was sick ; and Rose positively could not touch it 
and so Annie timidly offered her services, and Jim- 
mie knew from actual experience just how her soft 
fingers felt upon his arm, his pulse throbbing and the 
blood tingling in every vein as she dressed his wound 
so carefully, asking anxiously if she hurt him very badlj 
He would have suffered martyrdom sooner than lose the 
opportunity of feeling those soft fingers upon his flesh, 
and so it came about that Annie was his surgeon, and 
ministered daily to the wound which healed far too 
rapidly to suit the young man, who began to shrink 
from a return to the life ho had found so irksome. 

Tom had written twice for him to come as soon as 
possible, and now only one day more remained of the 
month he was to spend at home. The Widow Simms 
w is ready to go with him ; Susan had gone to her 
mother, and the cottage was to be closed, subject to a 
continual oversight from Mrs. Baker and an occasional 
inspection from both Rose and Annie. The box which 
Isaac had hidden in the barn, waiting for the bonfire 
which should celebrate our nation’s final victory, had 
been brought from its hiding-place, and baptized with 
the first and only tears the widow had shed since she 
went back to her humble home and left him in the grave- 
yaid. Sacred to her was that box, and she put it with 
her best table and chairs, bidding Annie Gtraham see 
that no harm befell it, and saying to her, “In case J 


276 


BOSE MATHER. 


never come back, and peace is declared, bum the box foi 
Isaac’s sake, right there on the grass-plat, which h€ 
dreamed about in liichmond.” 

And Annie promised all, as she packed the widow'i 
tnnk, putting in many little dainties which Rose Mathei 
had supplied, and which were destined for the soldiers 
whom the widow was to nurse. She had been all daj 
with Mrs. Simms, and Rose had been back and forth 
with her packages, curtailing her calls because of Jimmie, 
with whom she would spend as much time as possible. 

Jimmie was not in a very social mood that day; the 
house was very lonely without Annie, and the young man 
did nothing but walk from one window to another, look- 
ing always in the direction of Widow Simms’, and 
scarcely heeding at all what either his mother or sister 
were saying to him. When it began to grow dark, and 
he heard Rose speak of sending the carriage for Annie 
as she had promised to do, he said: 

“I ought to see Mrs. Simms myself to-night, and know 
if everything is in readiness for to-morrow. I will go for 
Mrs. Graham, and Rose, — don’t order the carriage, — 
there is a fine moon, and she, — that is, — I would rather 
walk.” 

Jimmie spoke hurriedly, and something in his mannei 
betrayed to Rose the reason why he preferred to walk. 

“Oh, Jimmie!” she exclaimed, “I’m so glad; tell her 
Bt? for me. I thought at first you did not like each 
other, and everything was going wrong. I am so glad; 
though I had picked her out for Tom. I ’most know he 
fancied her, and then he is a widower. It would be 
more suitable.” 

Rose meant nothing disparaging to Jimmie’s suit. 
She did think Tom, with his thirty* two years, better 
vnited to Annie, who had been, a wife than saucy-faced, 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. 


271 


teaBing Jimmie of only twenty-four. But love nevei 
consults the suitability of a thing, and Jimmie was des- 
perately in love by this time. It was not possible foi 
one of his temperament to live a whole month with An 
ie as he had lived, and not be in love with her. Hei 
graceful beauty, brightened by the auxiliaries of dress 
and improved health, and the thousand little attentions 
she paid him just because he was a soldier, had finished 
the work begun when he was home before, and he could 
not go back without hearing from her own lips whether 
there was any hope for him, — the scamp, the scapegrace, 
the rebel, as he had been called by turns. What Kose 
said of Tom brought a shadow to his face, and as 
he walked rapidly toward Widow Simms’, not hmping 
now, or scarcely touching his cane to the ground, he 
thought of Tom , — old Tom he called him, — wondering 
how much he had been interested in Annie Graham, and 
asking himself if it were just the thing for him to take 
advantage of Tom’s absence, and supjDlant him in the 
affections of one whom he might, perhaps, have won had 
he an opportunity. 

“ But Tom has had his day,” Jimmie thought. “ He 
can’t expect another wife as nice as Mary was, and it is 
only fair for me to try my luck. I never loved any one 
before.” 

Jimmie stopped suddenly here; stopped in his solilo- 
quy and his walk, and looking up into the starry sky, 
thought of the boy at New London, and the hills beyond, 
and the hotel on the beach, and the white-robed little 
figure with the blue ribbons in the golden hair, and the 
soft light in the violet eyes, which used to watch for hie 
coming, and look so bright and yet so modest withal 
when he came. Louise her aunt had called her, and hf 


278 


ROSE MATHER 


had designated Ler as Lu, or Lulu, just as the 
took him. 

“ I did love her some,” Jimmie thought. ‘‘ Yes, I loved 
her as well as a boy of seventeen is capable of loving^ 
and I deceived her shabbily. I wonder where she is ? 
She must be twenty or more by this time, and a woman 
much like Annie. If I could find her, who knows that I 
might not like her best ?” And for a moment Jimmie 
revolved the propriety of leaving Annie to Tom, while 
he sought for his first love of the Pequot House. 

But Annie Graham had made too strong an impres- 
sion upon him to be given up for a former love, who 
might be dead for aught he knew, and so Tom was cast 
overboard, and Jimmie resumed his walk in the direction 
of Widow Simms’ cottage. 

The widow’s trunks were all packed and ready : every 
thing was done in the cottage which Annie could do, and 
with a tired flush on her cheek, a tumbled look about 
her hair, and a rent in the black dress, made by a nail on 
one of the boxes, Annie was waiting for the carriage, and 
hnlf wishing, as she loked out into the bright moonlight, 
tl at she was going to walk home instead of riding. The 
fresh air would do her good, she thought, just as Jimmie 
appeared at the door. He had come to see if there waa 
anything he could do for IVIrs. Simms, he said, and to es- 
cort Mrs. Graham home. 

Annie’s cheeks were very red as she went for her shawl, 
and then bade good bye to Mrs. Simms, whom she did 
not exjiect to see on the morrow. As soon as they were 
.')rtside the gate, Jimmie drew her shawl close round her 
neck, and taking her arm in his, said to her: “ The night is 
^erj fine and warm, too, for the first of November. You 
won’t mind taking the longest route home, I am sure, as 
it is tha last time I may ever walk with you, and there if 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIER, 27fl 

Bomething I must tell you before I go back to danger and 
possible death.” 

He had turned into a long, grassy lane or newly open 
ed street, where there were but few houses yet, and An- 
nie knew the route would at least be a mile out of the way, 
but she could not resist the man who held her so closely 
to his side. She must hear what he had to say, and with 
an upward glance at the clear blue sky where she fancied 
George was looking down upon her, she nerved herself 
to hsten. 

“Annie,” he began, “I’ve called you Mrs. Graham here- 
tofore, but for to-night you must be Annie, even if you 
give me no right to call you by that name again. Annie, 
I have been a scamp, a wretch, a rebel, and almost every- 
thing bad. I deceived a young girl in New London years 
ago when I was a boy. Eose told you something about it 
once. Her name was Louise , — Lulu I called her, — and I 
made her think I loved her.” 

“And didn’t you love her?” Annie asked suddenly, 
her voice ringing clear in the still night and making Jim- 
mie start, there was something so quiet and determined 
in its tone. 

StiU he had no suspicion that the woman beside him 
was the girl he had left on the beach at New London, 
and he continued: “Yes, Annie, I did, as boys of seven- 
teen love girls of fourteen. She was pretty and soft, and 
pure and good, and I kissed her once on her forehead, 
and then I went away and never saw her after, or know 
what became of her. And I am telling you this by way oJ 
confessing my misdeeds, for I’ve been a fast and reck* 
.ess ymmg man. I’ve gambled, and sneered at thf 
Bible, and broken the Sabbath heaps of times, and flirted 
with more than forty girls, some of them not very respec- 
table either, and none as pure as little Lula I ran 


280 


ROSE MATHER. 


away from Lome and nearly broke my mother’s heart 1 
joined the rebel army and fought against my brother al 
the battle of Bull Run. I was captured by Bill Batei 
and led with a halter to Washington and there shut up 
n prison. A fine character I give myself, and yet after all 
this I have dared to love you, Annie Graham, and I have 
brought you this way to ask if you will be my wife. Not 
now, of couFGe : not before I go back ; but if 1 come 
through the war alive will you be mine then, Annie? 
Tell me, darhng, and don’t tremble so, or turn your face 
away.” 

Annie was shaking in every joint, and the face which 
Jimmie tried in vain to see was white as ashes. She had 
expected something hke this when he led her down that 
grassy lane, but nevertheless it came to her with a shock, 
making her feel as if in some way she had injui’ed her 
dead husband by listening to another’s love. And still she 
could not at once repulse the young man whose arm was 
around her, and who had drawn her to a gap in a stone 
wall, where he made her sit down while she answered 
him. Strange feelings had swept over her as she heard 
Jimmie Carleton’s voice telling her how much she was 
beloved, — how from the first moment he saw her he had 
been interested in her, and asking her again if she had 
anything to give the “ recreant Jim.** 

He said the last playfully, but there was a great feai* at 
Iiis heart lest her silence portended evil to him. 

“ No, I^Ir. Carleton. I have no heart to give you. I 
buried it with George ; I can never love another. For- 
give mo if in any way I have misled you. I was only 
kind to you as I would be to any soldier.” 

“Bill Baker, for instance,” came savagely from Jimmie’s 

ips. 

He was cruelly disappointed, for he had not believed 


THE WOUNDED SOLDIER 


281 


Ajinie would refuse him as she had done. He thought a 
good deal of himself as a Garleton. Nay, he believed him- 
self superior to the man who was standing between him 
and the woman he coveted, and to be so decidedly refused 
by one who had been content with a person in George 
Graham’s position angered him for a moment. Annie 
knew he was offended, and when he spoke of Bill Baker, 
she said to him gently : 

“ You mistake me, Mr. Caiieton. If necessary, I could 
do for William Baker more than I have done for you \ 
but it would only be from a sense of duty, — there would 
be no pleasure in it ; while caring for you was a pleas- 
ure, because you are ISIrs. Mather’s brother, and because, — 
because — ” 

She did not know how to finish the sentence, for she 
could not herself tell \vhy it had of late been so pleasant 
for her to do for Jimmie Garleton those little acts of 
kindness which had devolved on her. She was only in- 
terested in him as a soldier, she insisted, and she tried 
to make him understand that her decision was final ; 
that were George dead a dozen years, she should give him 
the same answer as she did now. She could not be his 
wife. And Jimmie understood it at last, and by the ter- 
rible pangs of disappointment which crept over him, the 
Pequot girl was fully avenged for the many times she had 
watched from her window of the hotel, or walked sadly 
along the road by the bay to see if Dick Lee were coming 
But Aunie had no wish for revenge. She was only sorry 
for him, and she tried to comfort him with the assurance 
of her interest in him, and by telling him that, if ever he 
was sick in hospital or camp, and unable to come home, 
she would surely go to him as readily as if he were her 
brother. 

Jimmie did not particularly care for such comfortiDif 


282 


BOSE MArHER. 


then, and his face, when he reached home, wore so dark 
and sorry a look that Rose, knew at once that something 
was wrong ; but she refrained from asking any question* 
then, — feeling intuitively that both Annie and her brother, 
would prefer to have her do so. 

It was a very grave, silent party which met at the 
breakfast table next morning, and only Annie was at all in- 
clined to talk. She tried to be cheerful and appear as usual 
to the silent young man who never looked at her as she sat 
opposite him, with her smooth bands of hair so becom- 
ingly arranged, and her eyes so full of pity for him. She 
could not revoke her decision, but she was sorry to send 
him fi’om her with that look upon his face ; and when, 
after breakfast, she met him for a few moments alone in 
the hbrary, she laid her hand timidly upon his arm, and 
said, “ Jimmie^ don’t be angry with me. Tiy to think of 
me as youi’ sister, — your best friend, if you hke. It grieves 
me that I have made you so unhappy.” 

She had never called him Jimmie before, in his hearing, 
and as she did it now, the dark, handsome face into which 
she was looking, flushed with a sudden joy, as if he thought 
she were relenting. But she was not; she could only be 
his friend, — his best friend, she repeated, and her face 
was very pale, as she told him how sh>j should remem- 
ber him, and work for him, and pray for him, when he 
was gone. And then she gave him her hand, saying to 
him, “ It is nearly time for you to go. I would rather say 
good-bye here.” 

And Jimmie took her hand, and, pressing it between 
his own, said to her : 

“ You have hurt me cruelly, Annie Graham, for I be- 
hoved you cared for me ; but I cannot hate you for it, 
though I tried to do so all night long. I love yon just th« 
p»me as ever, and always shall. Remember your prom- 


TOM AND JIMMIE. 28S 

ise to come to me when I am sick, and let me kiss you 
once for the sake of what I hoped might be.” 

She did not refuse his request ; and when at last ha 
left her there was a red spot on her cheek where Jimmie 
Caiieton’s lips had been. From her window she watch- 
td him going down dhe walk ; and while with ^^'ido'^ 
Simms he waited at the depot for the coming of the train, 
she on her knees was praying for him and his safety, just 
as, eighteen months before, she prayed for George when 
he was going from her. 



CHAPTEK XXHL 

TOM AND JIMMIE. 

JMMTE’S journey was performed in safety, and 
he won golden opinions from his traveling com- 
panion, for whom he had cared as kindly as if it 
had been his mother instead of the “crabbed widow” in 
her eternal leghorn, with the vail of faded gTeen. He 
had left her at one of the hospitals in Washington, where 
she was to begin her work as nurse, and hastened on tc 
join his regiment. Captain Carleton was glad to welcome 
back the brother whom he had missed so much, but he 
saw that something was wrong ; and that night, as thej 
sat around the tent fire, he asked what it was, and why 
the face, usually so bright and cheerful, seemed so sober 
and sad. Tom had made minute inquiries concerning 
his mother, and Kose, and Susan Simms, and even poor 
old JMrs. Baker. But not a word of Annie. He could 
not speak of her, with that unfinished letter lying in hii 
little travelling writing-case, — that letter 30 mmencin^ 


284 


ROSE MATHER. 


“My dear Mrs. Graham,” and over the wording of whicl 
Tom had spent more time by far than he did over the first 
epistle sent to Mary Williams. That had been dashed oft 
in all the heat of a young man’s first ardent passion, just 
.s Jimmie two weeks ago would have written to Aiuiio 
But Tom was eight years older than Jimmie. His fir^’i 
love had met its full fruition, and Mary, the olject, 
dead. Tom had always been old for his years. He look- 
ed, and seemed, and felt, full forty row, sa\e when ho 
thought of Annie, who was only twenty-one. Then he 
went back to thirty-two, glad that he had numbered 
no more birth-days. He had made up his mind to 
write to her. A friendly letter the first should be, he 
said, — a letter merely asking if she would correspond with 
him, and hinting at the interest he had felt in her ever 
since he saw how much she was to Kose, and how con- 
stant were her labors for the suffering soldiers. If her 
answer was favorable, he should ere long ask her to be 
his wife, and this is the way he took to win the woman 
whose name he would not mention to his brother. He 
nad been a little uneasy when Jimmie first went home, 
for he knew how popular the wayward youth was with 
all the ladies ; but as Eose had never written a word to 
strengthen him in his fears, he had tnrown them aside 
and commenced the letter which to-night, after Jimmie 
was gone, he was intending to finish for the morrow’s 
mail. He changed his mind, however, as the night worf 
on, for in reply to his question as to what was the mattei. 
Jimmie had burst out impetuously with, 

“It is all over with me and the widow. I went b 
strong for her, Tom. I told her all my badness, con* 
fessed everything I could, and then she said it could not 
be. I tell you, Tom, I did not know a man could be sc 
•ore about a woman ” And writh a great choking sob 


TOM AND JIMMIE. 28C 

Jiminie Carle ton laid his head upon Tom’s lap, and 
moaned like some wounded animal. 

Tom, who had been as a father to this younger brother, 
was touched to his heart’s core, and felt as if by liaviug 
>hat unfinished letter in his possession he was in some 
if ay guilty, and as a pitying woman would have done, he 
smoothed the dark curly hair, and tried to speak words 
of comfort. 

“ What had Annie said ? Perhaps she might relent 
Woidd Jimmie tell him about it?” 

Then Jimmie lifted up his head, and looking straight 
in Tom’s eyes, smd, 

“ Forgive me, old Tom. I was inchned to be jealous 
of you. Rose said you were more suitable, and I know 
you arei but, Tom, I did love Annie so much, after I 
had swallowed the first husband, which cost me a great 
effort, for a widow is not the beau ideal I used to cherish 
of my future wife. Tom, you don’t care for Annie, do 
you ?” he continued, in a startled tone, as something in 
Tom’s face affrighted him. 

Tom would not deceive him then, and he replied, 

“I have, — that is, — yes, I do care for her, and I had 

commenced a letter, but *’ 

Don’t finish it, Tom. Do this for me, — don’t finish 
it I” Jimmie exclaimed, eagerly, knowing now how the 
hope that Annie might relent had buoyed him up, and 
kept him from utter despondency. “ Don’t send it, Tom; 
leave her to me, if I can win her yet. She may feel dif* 
fcrently by and by: her husband is only one year dead. 
Let me have Anni e, Tom,” and Jimmie grew more vehe 
ment as he saw plainly the struggle in Tom’s mind 
“ You’ve had your day with Mary. Think of your year* 
of married life, when you were so happy, and leave Annif 


286 


ROSE MATHER. 


to me. At least don’t try to get her from me, — not yet, - 
frait a year. Will you, Tom ?” 

“ Few could resist Jimmie Carleton’s pleadings when 
they were so earnest as now; and generous Tcm yielded 
to the boy, whom he had scolded, and whipped, and 
disciplined, and loved, and grieved over, ever since the 
day their father died and left him the head of the fam' 

iiy- 

‘'I will wait a year and see what that brings to us, 
and you, Jimmie, must do the same, then Annie shall de- 
cide,” he said at last, and his voice was so steady in its 
tone, and his manner so kind, that Jimmie never guessed 
how much it cost the man who “ had had his day,” to 
unlock the little desk and take from it the letter intended 
for Annie Graham and commit it to the flames. 

They watched it together as it crisped and blackened 
on the coals, neither saying a word or stirring until the 
last thin flake had disappeared, when Tom bent to pick 
up something which had dropped from the desk, when 
he took out the letter. It was Mary's picture, and in 
her lap the baby which had died when six months old. 

“ Yes, I have had my day,” Tom thought, as he gazed 
upon the fair, sweet face of her whose bright head had 
once lain where he had thought to have Annie’s lie. “I 
have had my day, and though it closed before it wa« 
noon, I will not interf(»*e with Jimmie.” 

And so the compact was sealed between them, and 
Jimmie slept sounder on his soldier bed that night than 
he had slept before since Annie’s refusal. Jimmie waa 
not selfish, and as the days w^ent by and he reflected 
more and more upon Tom’s generosity, his conscience 
smote him for having allowed his brother to sacrifice hia 
happiness for a whim of his. She might have refused 
him, too, and then again she might not; at all events hf 


TOM AND JDCMIE. 


287 


had a right to try his luck,” Jimmie reasonetl, until at 
Iasi his sense of justice triumphed and he wrote to Amnie 
an account of the whole transaction. 

•‘It was mean in me to let Tom burn the letter,” ha 
vaiil, ^‘but I could not bear the thought of his win* 
ling what I had lost, and so like a coward I looked on 
and felt a thrill of satisfaction when I saw his lettei 
crisping on the coals. But as proof that I have repented 
of that selhsh act, I ask you plainly, ‘Would you have re- 
phed favorably to that letter, had it been sent ?’ If so, 
tell me truly, and without ever betraying the fact that I 
tiave written to you on the subject, I will manage to 
have Tom write again, and if the fates shall so decree I 
will try to forget that gap in the stone wall where we 
sat that night when I told you of my love.” 

His letter found Annie sick in bed from the effects of 
a severe cold which kept her so long in her room that it 
was not till just on the eve of the battle of Fredericksburg 
that Jimmie received her answer, “ I should say No to 
your brother just as I did to you.” 

This was what Jimmie read, and with a feeling of re^ 
lief as far as Tom was concerned, he crushed th(> few 
lines into his pocket and went on with his preparations 
for the contest at Fredericksburg, which seemed inevitaL'le, 
with a kind of recklessness which characterized many of 
our soldiers. Jimmie had heretofore felt no fears of a 
battle. The bullet which might strike down another 
would not harm him, and he charged his preservation 
mostly to Annie’s prayers for his safety; but in this, her 
last brief note, she had not said so much as “ God bless 
you,” and Jimmie’s heart beat faster as he thought of 
the impending danger. Jimmie seldom prayed, but if 
Annie had failed him he must try what he could ilo for 
himself, and when the night came down upon that va«t 


288 


ROSE MATHEK. 


w*mj camping in the woods and on the hillside, it looked 
on one young face upturned to the wintry skj, and the 
moaning winds carried up to heaven the few \ ")rds c i 
prayer which Jimmie Carleton said. 

Oppressed with a strange feeling of forebeding, he 
i-ra^ ed earnestly that God would blot out all his manir 
it Id transgi’essions, and if he died, — giant him an entrance 
into heaven where Annie was sure to go. Close beside 
him crouched Bill, who listened with wonder to the 
* Corp’ral,” a feeling of teiTor beginning to creep inti' 
his own heart as he detected the accents of fear in hif 
companion. 

“ I say, Corp’ral,” he began, when Jimmie’s devotions 
were ended, “ be you ’fraid of somethin’s happenin’ to 
you when they set us to crossin’ that darned river, and 
if there does, shall I write to the folks and the gal you 
mentioned and teU ’em you prayed like a parson the 
night before ?” 

Jimmie w. s terribly annoyed with Bill’s impertinence, 
and for a man who had just been praying did not exer- 
cise as much Christian forbearance as might have been 
expected. A harsh “Mind your business I” was his only 
reply, which Bill received with a good humored, “ Guess 
you’ll have to try agin, Corp’ral, before you get into the 
right frame;” and then there was silence between them, 
and the night crept on apace, and the early morning be- 
gan to break and the wintry sky was obscured by a 
thick, dull haze, which hid for a time our soldiers frorr 
view, then a deadly fire of musketry from the opposite 
bank of the Rappahannock was opened upon them, till 
they fled to the shelter of the adjacent hills, where, form- 
ing into line, they again went back to the laying of the 
pontoon bridges, while the roar of the cannon shook Ihe 
iulls and told to the listeners miles away that tlie battle 
of Fredericksburg was begun. 


RESULTS OF THE BATTLF. 


289 


CHAPTER XXI\. 


RESULTS OF THE BATTLE. 

jfeSPHE streets of Rockland were full of excited peo 
pie when the news first reached the town of the 
F terrible battle which had left so many slain 
apon the field, and desolated so many hearths both North 
and South. Rose Mather was nearly frantic, for Will 
she knew was in the battle, together with her two broth- 
ers, and it was not probable that all three would escape 
unharmed. Eagerly she grasped the paper to see who 
was killed, wounded, or missing, but neither of the three 
names was there, and she began to hope again, and 
found time to comfort poor Susan Simms, whose husband 
was also in the fight, and who had gone almost mad with 
the fear lest he should be killed. 

Two days passed, and then there came a telegram from 
Tom, and Mrs. Carleton, who read it first, gave a low, 
moaning cry, while Rose, who read it next, uttered a 
piercing shriek, and fell sobbing into Annie’s arms. 

“Oh, Will! — oh. Will! — my husband!” was what she 
said, while Mi’s. Carleton uttered Jimmie’s name, and 
then Annie knew that harm had come to him, and plac- 
ing Rose upon the sofa, she took the paper from Mrs. 
Carleton’s hand, and read: 


“Will was badly wounded, —lay on the field all night ; — Jimmie 
missing, — supposed to be a prisoner. I am well. 

“T. Cableton.” 

“ Poor Jimmie !” Annie whispered, sadly, her heart 
thiobbing with pity for the young man who had gonf 
oack in time to meet so sad a fate. 

13 


290 


ROSE MATHER. 


Never had so dark a day dawned upon Rose Mathei 
as that which followed the arrival of Tom’s telegram, but 
ere its dose there came a message of hope to her. Will 
had been biken to Washington, where he had jiroviden- 
ially fallen into the hands of Mrs, Simms, who sent t he 
oyful news that “no bones were broken, and he wai 
ioing well.” 

“Oh, Annie, God is so much better to me than I de- 
serve; I must love Him now, and I will, if He will only 
send Jimmie back,” Bose said, while Annie’s heart went 
up in a prayer of thanksgiving for Mr. Mather’s compar- 
ative safety, and then went out after the poor prisoner, 
whose destination was as yet unknown. 

That night Bose started for Washington, and three 
days after there came to Annie a soiled, queer -looking 
missive, directed to “ Miss Widder Anny Graam, At Miss 
Martherses,” the name written at the top of the letter, 
and the superscription spreading over so much surface, 
that, had there been another word, it must, from neces- 
sity, have been written on the other side of the letter. 
It was from Bill Baker, and it read as follows: 

“ Army of Potomac, and about as licked out an army as you evei 
seen. To all it may concern, and ’specially Miss inny Graam. 1 
send you my regrets greetin’, and hopin’ this will find you enjoyin 
the same great blessin’. Burnside has made the thunderinest blun 
der, and more’n a million of our boys is dead before Fredericksburgh 
Mr. Mathers was about riddled through, I guess, and the Corporal, 
-wall, may as well take it easy,— I fit for him like a tiger, till they 
nocked me endways, and I played dead to save my life. But the 
Corporal’s a goner,— took prisoner with an awful cut on his neck ; 
and now what Tm going to tell you is this : the night before the bat- 
lie I came upon him prayin’ like a priest, kneehn’ in an awful mud- 
puddle, and what he said was somethin’ about Heaven, and Army. 
whitch, beggin’ your pardon, I think means you, and so [ ast him in 
MM of bad luck, if I should write and tell you. I don’t fehinh ^ 


REStJLTS OF THE BATTLE. 


m 


eonld Lave ben in a vary sperritnal frame of mind, for he told me tc 
mind my bisiness, but I don’t lay it up agin him, and when them too 
tall, lantern-jawed sons of Balam grabbed him as he was tryiu’ tc 
skedaddle with the blood a spirtin’ from his neok, I pitched inter 
’em, and give ’em hide columby for a spell, till they nocked me llat 
and I made bleeve dead as I was tellin’ you. Don’t feel bad. Mis* 
Ifraam. Trust luck and keep your pcwder dry, and mabby he’ll 
oine back sometime. 

Yours to command, 

“ Bill Baeeb.'* 

“TeU the old woman I’m well, but pretty well tuckered out” 

*• God soften the hearts of his captors. God keep him 
in safety I” Annie whispered, and then, as Mrs. Carle ton 
came in, she passed the note to her, and tried to comfort 
the poor mother, who, in Rose’s absence, leaned on her 
as on a daughter. 

Annie seemed very near the sorrowing woman, who 
wept bitterly for her poor boy, and in the first hours of 
her sorrow she spoke out what was in her mind. 

“ I believe Jimmie loved you, Annie, and that makes 
you very dear to me. We can mourn for him togetheri 
and, Annie, you will pray for him night and day, that 
God will bring him back to us.” 

Annie could only reply by pressing the hand which 
sought hers, for her heart was too full to speak. 
Had Jimmie been dead she would scarcely have mourn- 
ed for him more deeply than she did now. The country 
was already rife with rumors of the sufferings endured 
by our prisoners, and death itself seemed almost prefer- 
able to months and years of privations and pain in the 
Southern prisons. 

“ Sent to Richmond, and probably from thence further 
South, probably to Georgia.” 

This was aU the intelligence they could procure from 
him, until spring, when there came news direct that he 


•292 


ROSE MATHER. 


was at Salisbury, and there for a time the curtail 
dropped, leaving his face shrouded in darkness, while in 
his Northern home tears were shed like rain, and prayerl 
went up to heaven from the quivering lips of a mother 
'i«rho was just learning to pray as she ought, and into 
innie Graham’s heart there gradually crept a wish thal 
the poor, weary prisoner might know how much and 
how kindly she thought of him, feeling at times hall 
sorry that she had not given him some little hope as i 
solace for the weary hours of his prison life. 


CHAPTER XXV. 



1 / 


GETTYSBURGH. 

MATHER had brought her husband home 
^ as soon as it was safe to move him, and with 
the good nursing of I^Ii*s. Carleton and Annie, 
he grew strong enough to rejoin his regiment in May 
and the last which Rose heard from him directly was a 
few words hastily written and sent off to Washington 
just as the Army of the Potomac was moving on to Get- 
tysburgh. Then came the terrible battle, when the sum- 
mer air was full of smoke, and dust, and flying sphnters, 
with clouds of torn-up earth which blinded the horror- 
stricken men, who vainly sought for shelter behind the 
trees and the headstones of the graveyard, where the 
dead must almost have heard the fierce commotion 
wound them as >vail after wail of human anguish, min 
gled with the a’wful shrieks of dying horses, went up to 
the blackened heavens and then died away in silence 


QETTYSBUEGH. 


293 


Where tne battle was the hottest, and the carnage the 
most terrible, Will Mather followed, or rather led, and 
when the fight had ceased he lay upon his face, uncon- 
scious of the pitiless rain beating upon his head, or th« 
two savage-looking Texans bending over him, and turn 
ing him to the light. 

Among the list of killed, the Rockland Chronicle ol 
July 10th had the name of William Mather, while' in 
another column, designated by long lines of black, was a 
eulogy upon the deceased, who was known to have fought 
so bravely. Then every blind of the Mather mansion 
was closed, and knots of crape streamed from the door 
knob, and the villagers missed the roll of the carriage 
wheels w'hich were wont to carry so much comfort and 
sunshine to the hearts of the poor soldiers; and the lit- 
tle airy, dancing creature, whose bright smile and rare 
beauty had done quite as good service as her generous 
gifts, lay in her darkened room, never weeping, never 
speaking, except to moan so piteously, “Oh, WiU, my 
darling, my poor, poor husband.” 

They could not comfort her, for she did not seem to 
hear, or at least to understand one word they said, and 
the soft, dark eyes had in them a wild, scared look, 
which troubled the watchers at her side, and made them 
tremble for her safety. 

The knots of crape were taken from the doors, and 
the blinds were opened at last, and the light of 
heaven let into the dreary house ; but there came no 
change to poor little Rose, whose white face grew so 
thin that Tom, when in September he came home to sec 
her, would scarcely have known the little sister, of whose 
beauty he had been so proud. As if the sight of him in 
hifi uniform had brought back the horror of the past 


294 


ROSE MATHER. 


she uttered a piercing shriek, and hid her face for t 
moment in her pillows; then, with a sudden movement 
lifted her head, and shedding back her tangled curls 
from her pale forehead, she stretched her arms toward 
him and whispered: 

“Take me, Tom; hold me as you used to do; let me 
bo a Httle girl again in the old home in Boston, for Will, 
you know, is dead.” 

And Tom took her in his strong, brotherly arms, and 
laid her head against his breast, and caressed and 
smoothed her tumbled hair, and petted and loved hex 
just as he did when she was a little child, with no shadow 
around her hke that which enfolded her now. And then 
he spoke of Will, and the dark eyes fastened eagerly upon 
his as he told her how the very ni^ht before the battle, 
Will knelt down with him and prayed that whether he 
lived or died, all might be well with him. 

And Kose,” he continued, “he bade me tell you, in 
caise =he was killed, that all was well, and you must thinh 
of him as in Heaven, not far, as some suppose, but near tc 
you, — with you, — he said, and you must meet him there. 
You must bear bravely what God chooses to send ; not 
give up hke this when there is so much to be done. WiU 
tny darling httle sister heed what poor Wih said ? Will 
Bhe try to raUy and be a brave woman ?” 

“ Yes, Tom, I’h try,” came gaspingly from the white 
lips, and Bose’s voice was broken with sobs, as the first 
tears she had shed since she heard the fatal news, ran in 
torrents down her face. 

Tom only staid a week, but he did them a world o 
;>ood, and Annie felt she had never known one half how 
aoblo a man he w^as until she saw how tender he wae 
irith Bose, and how kind to his mother, whose heart 


GETTYSBURGH. 


29t 


was aching to its very core for her youngest son, H« 
had been removed from Salisbury to Andersonville whet 
they last heard from him, and was dead, perhaps, by this 
time. Poor Jimmie I The year he had asked Tom to 
wait would be up before very long, but Tom would stil 
keep faith with him. Annie was sacred to Jimmie* 
memory, and once, when talking with her of the captive, 
he alluded to what would probably be when Jimmie came 
home again. And Annie did not turn from him now, as 
she would once have done had such a thing been sug- 
gested. 

“ God only knows how I might feel,” she said, and by 
the look in her blue eyes, and the tono of her voice, Tom 
knew there was no hope for him. 

With many kisses and loving words of sympathy, he 
bade his sister good-bye when his leave had expired, and 
then in the hall stood a moment while his mother whis- 
pered something to him which made him start, and turn 
pale as he said: 

“Poor Willi he would have been so glad!” 

Then, as if the news had brought Rose nearer to him, 
and made her more the object of his special care, he 
went back to her a second time, and wound his arms 
about her lovingly, as he said, “ Poor little wounded dove I 
God’s promises ar« for the widow and fatherless, and He 
will care for you;” and Rose guessed to what he referred, 
out there was no answering joy upon her face, and hei 
hands were pressed upon her heart as she watched him 
from the window, going from her just as WiU had gone, 
and whispered to herself, “ It would have been too muck 
happiness if Will had hved ; but now I cannot be glad.” 


2»6 


BOSE MATHER. 


CHAPTER XXVI 



COURSE OF EVENTS. 

ITH a howl of despair, Mrs. Baker same rushing 
into the kitchen of the Mather mansion, om 
morning in November, startling Annie with hei 
vehemence as she thrust into her hand a dirty, haK-wom 
envelope, which she said was from Bill, who had been 
missing since August, and who, it now appeared, was at 
Andersonville. 

“Might better be dead,” his mother said, and then she 
explained that the letter she brought Annie had come in 
one to herself received that morning from Bill. 

How he ever got it through the hues was a mystery 
which he did not explain; nor did Annie care, inasmuch 
as it brought news direct from Jimmie. He had written 
to her with the pencil and on the sheet of paper Bill had 
brought him, for BiU Baker was employed outside the 
prison walls, and allowed many pri\ileges which were 
denied to the poor wretches who crowded that swampy 
pen. In short. Bill had taken the Confederate oath,— 
“ had done some tall swearin’,” as he wrote to Annie, 
giving as an excuse for the treasonable act, “ that he 
couldn’t Stan' the racket ” in that horrible place, where 
twenty thousand human beings were crowded together 
in a space of twenty-five acres, and part of that a marshy 
Bwamp, teeming with filth and scum, and hideous living 
things. Another reason, too, Bill gave, and that wan 
pity for the “ Corp’ral,” to whom he could occasionally 
take little extras, and whom he would have scarcely 
recognized, he said, so worn and changed had be become 
from hie long imprisonment. 


THE COURSE OF EVENTa 


29 ^ 


“I mistrusted he was there,” Bill wrote; “ and so when noj 
and and some other fellow-travellers was safely landed in pm*> 
gatory, I went on an explorin’ tower to find him. But yo-x bet il 
want so easy gettin through that crowd. Why, the camp-meetin' 
hey had in the Fair Grounds in Rockland, when Marra FroemaK 
ust her biler hoUerin,’ was nothin’ to the piles of ragged, dirty, hun- 
fry- lookin’ dogs; some standin’ up, some lyin’ down, and all lookin’ 
40 if they was on their last legs. Right on a little sand-bank, and so 
near the dead line that I wonder he didn’t get shot, I found the Cor- 
p'ral. with his trouses tore to tatters, and lookin’ like the old gal’s 
rag-bag that hangs in the suller-way. Didn’t he cry, though, when 
I hit him a kelp on the back, and want there some tall cryin’ done by 
both of us as we sat there flat on the sand, with the hot sun pourin 
down on us, and the sweat and the tears runnin’ down his face, as 
he told me all he’d suffered. It made blood bile. I’ve had a 
little taste of Libby, and BeU Isle, too; but they can’t hold a candle 
to this place. Miss Graam, you are the good sort, kinder pius Like ; 
but I’ll be hanged if I don’t bleeve you’ll justify me in the thumpin 
lies I told the Corp’ral that day, to keep his spirits up. Says he. 
‘ Have you ever ben to Rockland since Fredericksburg ?’ and then 
1 tho’t in a minute of that nite in the woods when he prayed about 
Army; and ses I to myself, ‘The piusest lie you ever told will be 
that you have been home, and seen Miss Graam, with any other 
triflin’ additions you may think best;’ so I told him I had ben hum 
cn a furbelow, as the old gal (meanin’ my mother) caUs,it. And 1 
seen her, too, says I, Miss Graam, and she talked an awml sight 
about you, I said, when you orto have seen him shiver all over as he 
got up closer to me, and asked, ‘ What did she say ?’ Then I went 
on romancin’, and told him how you spent a whole evenin’ at the ole 
hut, talkin’ about him, and how sorry you was for him, and couldn’t 
git your natural sleep for thinkin’ of him, and how, when I came 
away, you said to me on the sly, ‘ William, if you ever happen to 
meet Mr. Carleton, give him Anny Graam’s love, and teU him she 
means it.’ Great Peter ! I could almost see the flesh come back to 
his bones, and his eyes had the old look in ’em, as he liked to oi 
hugged me to death. I’d done him a world of good, he said, and for 
some days he seemed as chipper as you please; but nobody can stau’ 
£ diet of raw meal and the nastiest watter that ever run ; and ses ] 
lo myselfl Corp’ral will die as sure as thunder if somethin' (3or’< 


298 


ROSE MATHER 


turn up; and so, when I got the hang of things a little, and see* 
how the macheen was worked, sez I, ‘ I’ll turn Secesh, though I hat4 
’em as I do pizen.’ They was glad enujff to have me, bein’ I'm a 
kind of carpenter and jiner, and they let me out, and I went to work 
for the Corp’ral. I’U bet I told a hundred hes, fust and last, if I did 
one. I said he was at heart Secesh; that he was in the rebel army, 
and I took him prisoner at Manassas, which, you know was true. 
Then I said his sweetheart, meanin’ you, begging your pardon, got 
ap a row, and made him jine the Federals, and promise never to go 
agin the flag, and that’s how he come to be nabbed up at Fredericks- 
burg. I said’twan’t no use to try to make him swear, for he thought 
more of his gal’s good opinion than he did of liberty, ana I set you 
op till I swan if I bleeve you’d a knowed yourself, and every one ol 
them fellers was ready to stan’ by you, and two of ’em drinked your 
helth with the wust whisky I ever tasted. One of ’em asked me if I 
was a fair specimen of the Northern Army, and I’U be darned if 1 
didn’t teU him no, for I was ashamed to have ’em think the Federals 
was aU like me.” I guess, though, they liked me some ; anyway, they 
let me carry something to the Corp’ral every now and then, and I 
bleeve he’d die if I didn’t. I’ve smuggled him in some paper and a 
pencU, and he is going to wright to yon, and I shaU send it, no mat- 
ter how. The rebs won’t see it, and I guess it’s pretty sure to go 
•afe. I must stop now, and wright to the old woman. 

“Yours to command, 

“WiLiJAM Baker, Esqu ABE.’’ 

It was with great difficulty that Annie could decipher 
the badly- written scrawl; but she made it out at last, 
and then took Jimmie’s letter next, shuddering as she 
saw in it marks of the horrors which Bill had described 
but faintly, and which were fully corroborated by Jim- 
mie himself. 

“ My dear Annie,” he wrote, “I do not know that this letter wiH 
» ever reach you. I have but litfle hope that it wiU. StiU it is worth 
/ trying for, and so here in this terrible place, whose horrors no pen 
/ or tongue can adequately describe, I am writing to you, who I know 
think sometimes of the poor wretch starving and dying by inches in 
Anderson ville. Oh, Annie, you can never know what 1 have suffered 


i 


THE COURSE OF EVENTS. 


29 ^ 


(rom hnnger and 1 hirst, and exposure and filth, which aiakes mj 
rery blood curdle and creep, and from that weary homesicknesi 
which more than aught else kills the poor boys around me. Whe» 

I first came here I thought I could not endure it, and though 1 kne^ 

[ was not prepared, I used to wish that I might die; but a littU 
Irummer boy from Michigan, who took to me from the fii-st, s.aid hig 
prayers one night beside me, and the listening to him carried me 
back to you, who, I felt sure, prayed for me each day. And so hop^ 
came back again, with a desire to live and see your dear face ono<- 
more. My little drummer boy, Johnny, was all the world to me, and 
when he grew too sick to sit or stand, I held his poor head in my lap, 
^nd gave up my rations to him, for he was almost famished, and ate 
eagerly whatever was brougtit to us. We used to say the Lord’s 
Prayer together every night, when a certain star appeared, which he 
playfully called his ‘ mother, ’ saying it was her eye watching over 
him. It was a childish fancy, but we grow childish here, and I, tco, 
have given that star a name. I call it ‘ Annie,’ and I watch its com- 
ing as eagerly as did the little boy, who died just as the star reached 
the zenith and was shining down upon him. His head was in my 
lap, and all there was left of my coat I made into a pillow for him, 
and held him till he died.' His mother’s, address is , Michi- 

gan. Write to her, Annie, and tell her how Johnny died in the firm 
nope of meeting her again in heaven. Tell her he did not suffei 
much pain,— only a weakness, which wasted his life away. Tell her 
the keepers were kind V’ him, and brought him ice-water several 
times. Tell her, too, of the star at which he gazed so long as he had 
strength. 

“It was all the companion I had after he was gone until Bill 
Baker came. I shall never forget that day. I had crawled up to 
my sand bank, and drawn my rags around me, and was begiiming 
to wish again that I could die, when a broad hand was laid upon my 
shoulder, and a voice which was music to me then, if it never had 
been before, said to me cheerily, ‘ Hallo, old Corp’ral ! Such art 
the chances of war 1 Give us your fist !’ But when he saw what a 
sorry jaded wretch I was, his chin began to quiver, and we cried to- 
getiicr like two great babies as we were. 

“ Oh, Annie, was it a lie Bill Baker told n.e, or did you really send 
me your love, and say that you meant it ? He told me suet a story, 
and I grew better in a moment. Have you relented, and if I could 
MX you again the question I asked a year ago, when we sat togethai 


500 


BOSE MATHER. 


beneath the jaoonlight, would you tell me yes f Darling Annie, An 
dersonville is not so terrible since I am kept up by that hope. I di 
not mind now if my shoes and stockings are all gone, and my 
fcrowsers nearly so, and I watch for that star so eagerly, and makt 
Deli ?ve that it is you, and when the dark clouds obscui’e it, and tb4 
rain is falling upon my unsheltered head, I say that it is Annie’a 
tears, and do not mind that either. I pray, too, Annie, - pray with 
cay heart, I hope, though my prayers have more to do with you tha» 
myself. 

“Bill Baker said he should write ann tell you about his taking 
the oath, which I believe he did almost solely for my sake, and greatly 
have I been benefited by it. Bough as he is, and disgusting at times, 
he seems to have gained friends outside, and he does us many a kind- 
ness, confining his attentions mostly to me, who am his especial 
care. It is a strange Providence that he who took me a prisoner at 
Bull Run and annoyed me so terribly, should now be caring for mb 
here at Andersonville, and literally keeping the life within me, for I 
should die without him. 

“ I have not written half I want to say, but my paper is nearly 
used up, and not one word have I said to mother or Bose. Tell 
them they would not know me now, and teU them, too, that in my 
dreams, when I am not with you, I am with them, and mother’s face 

like an angel’s, while Bose’s sparkling beauty makes my heart 
beat just as it used to beat when I first began to realize what a dar- 
ting sister I had. Dear Annie, you did send that message by BiU 
Baker, I wiU beheve, and thus believing, shall gain strength mayb« 
lo bear up until the day of release. 

“Good-bye, my darhng. From my crowded, filthy, terrible pris 
cm I send you a loving good-bye.” 

Notwithstanding the sickening details of this letter the 
lay succeeding its receipt was a brighter one at the Math- 
house than the inmates had known for a long time. 
cTimmie was still ahve, and with Bill Baker’s care he 
might survive the horrors of Andersonville and come bad 
to them again. Annie showed both letters to Mrs Call©- 
ton, who, when she read them, wound her arms around 
Annie’s neck and whispered, Is it wrong for me to b« 


V 


THE COUBSE OF EVKNTa 801 

glad that Bill Baker told that lie, when by the meani 
our prisoner boy is so greatly benefited.” 

Annie could not tell. She was not sorry that Jimmie 
ahould thmk of her as he did, and that night when the 
Btars came out in the sky she looked tearfully up at them 
wondering which was the one watched for by the childish 
young man, and the little boy who died. IMi’S. Carleton 
had taken it for granted that if Jimmie came back Annie 
would be her daughter, and she clung vO her with a love 
and tenderness second only to what she felt for Rose. 
Poor Rose I She had listened with some degree of inter- 
est to such portions of Jimmie’s letter as Annie chose to 
read to her, but it had no power to rouse her from the 
state of apathy into which she had fallen. She never 
smiled now, and rarely spoke except to answer a question, 
but sat all day by the window in her own room, and look- 
ed away to the southward, where all her thoughts were 
centered. It was very strange that nothing could be 
heard of her husband except that he was shot down dead. 
A dozen corroborated that fact, but his body had not 
been found on the field, nor was any mention ever made 
of him in any official accounts. Once Rose had been 
startled from her stupor by a soldier, who pretended to 
have seen her husband in one of the Southern prisons, 
but a closer examination proved that the man was intox- 
icated, and had told what he did in the hope that money 
might be given him for the intelligence, and then Rose 
sank back into her former condition, the same hopeless 
look in her eyes which had been there fi*om the moment 
she heard her husband’s name among the killed, and the 
same look of anguish upon her face which never relaxed 
a muscle, as she watched indifferently the preparation! 
made by her mother and Annie for an event which imdei 


802 


ROSE MATHER 


other circumstances would have stirred every pulsation 
of her heart. But when on Christmas morning, th€ 
bell from St. Luke*s was sending forth its joyous peal foi 
the child bom in Bethlehem more than eighteen hundred 
fears ago, there came a softer, more natural look to 
Bose’s eyes, and her lip quivered a little as she said to 
Annie, who was bending over her, “ What is that sound 
in the next room like the crying of a baby ?” 

'‘It is your baby. Rose; bom last night. Don’t you re* 
member it, — a beautiful little boy, with his father’s look 
in his eyes, and Jimmie’s dimple in his chin ?” 

Annie hoped, by mentioning both the father and Jim^ 
mie, to awaken some interest in the little mother, whose 
eyes grew larger, and rounder, and brighter, as she whis- 
pered: 

“ My baby, I can’t understand. It is aU so strange and 
mysterious. How came I with a baby, Annie ? Bring it 
to me, please.” 

They brought it to her, and laid it in her arms, and 
then stood w^atching her as the first tokens of the moth- 
er’s love came over her face and crept into her eyes, which 
gradually began to fill with tears, until, at last, a storm 
of sobs and moans burst forth, as Rose rocked to and fro, 
whispering to her child: 

“ Poor dai’ling 1 to be bom without a father, when he 
would have been so j)roud of his boy. Poor, murdered 
WiUl Poor, fatherless baby I I am glad God gave you 
to me. I did not deserve it. I’ve been so thoughtless 
and wicked, but I will be better now. Dear little baby 
wo will grow good together, so as to go some day whe e 
papa has gone.” 

She would not let them take the child from her Ii 
was hers, she said. God had sent it to make her belter 


THF COURSE OF EYENTEL 


80S 


and she <vould ha^e it. There was something in ths 
touch of its soft, warm hands, which kept her heart from 
breaking. And so they left it with her, and from the daji 
that little life came to be one in the household, Rose be- 
gan to amend, and, in her love for her child, forgot in 
part the terrible pain in her heart. Once her mother said 
to her: 

** Will you call your baby, William ?” And she replied; 

‘*No; there is but one WiUie for me, and he is in 
Heaven. Baby will be called for brother Jimmie.” 

And so one bright Sunday morning in March, when Si 
Luke*8 was decked with flowers from the Mather hot- 
house, and the children of the Sunday School sang their 
Easter carols, Rose Mather, in her widow’s weeds, went 
up the aisle, with her mother, Annie, and brother Tom, 
the latter of whom gave her bright-eyed, beautiful boy to 
the rector, who baptized him “ James Carleton.” And 
all through the congregation there ran a thrill of pity 
for the widowed mother, whose face, though it had lost 
some of its brilliant color, was more beautiful than ever, 
for there was shining all over it the light of a new joy, 
the peace which comes from sins forgiven, and, after the 
baptism was over and the morning service read. Rose 
knelt with her mother, brother, and Annie, to receive 
for the first time, the precious symbols of a Saviour’s dy- 
ing love. 

Rose had ceased to oppose Annie in her wish to join 
Mrs. Simms, who was then at Annapolis; and when Tom, 
a few days after the baptism, went back again, Annie 
vould go with him as a regular hospital nurse. 

It might be that Jimmie would be among the number 
of skeletons sent up to “God’s land,” as the poor fellows 
called it; and Annie’s heart throbbed with the pleasure it 
would be to minister t<3 him, to call the life back to hit 


m 


ROSE MATHER. 


deart, to awaken an interest in him for olden times, and 
then, perhaps, whisper to him that the decision made th&J 
moonhght night, more than a year and a half ago, had 
been revoked and where she had said no, her answer now 
was yes. Between herself and Mrs. Carleton there had 
been a long talk, of which Jimmie and the little Pequot 
girl were the subjects, and the proud lady had asked 
forgiveness for the wrong done to that girl, if wrong there 
were. 

“ Something tells me you will find my boy,” she said 
“ and if you do, tell him how freely I give him this little 
Lulu, and God bless you both I” 

A few weeks later, and news came to the Mather House 
that when the battle of the Wilderness was over. Captain 
Tom Carleton was not with his handful of men who came 
from the field. ** A prisoner of war,” was the next report, 
and then, as if her last hope had been taken from her, 
Mrs. Carleton broke down entirely, and, secluding herseli 
from the world without, sat down in her desolation, 
mourning and praying for her two boys, — one a prisoner 
in Andersonville, and one in Columbia. 


CHAPTEK XXVn. 

THE HUNTED SOLDIEB. 


S HE sun was just rising, and his red beams gildeo 
the summits of the Alleghany Mountains which 
in the glory or the early morning seemed as calm 
and peaceful as if their lofty heights had never looked 


THE HUNTED SOLDIER. 


80 fi 

down upon scenes of carnage and strife, or tlieir tangled 
passes and dark ravines sheltered poor, starving, fright- 
ened wretches, fleeing for their lives, and braving dealt 
in any form rather than be recaptured by their mercilest 
pursuers. There were several of these miserable meL 
hiding in the mountain passes now, prisoners escaped 
from Salisbury and other points, but our story now has to 
do with but one, and that a young man, with a look of 
determination in his eye, and the courage of a Samson in 
his heart. He had sufi’ered incredible hardships since the 
iay of his capsui'e. He had been stripped at once of his 
handsome uniform by the brutal Texans, who found him 
upon the fleld. His gold, which he carried about his per- 
son into every battle, had been taken from him, and in this 
condition he had been sent from one prison to another, 
until Salisbury received him. At first he had suffered 
but little mentally, for the ball which struck him down 
had left him with his reason impaired, and to him it was 
all the same whether friend or foe had him in keeping. 
Deprived of everything which could mark his rank as an 
officer, and always insisting that his name was “ Kose,” 
he passed for a demented creature, whom the brutal sol- 
diery delighted to torment. Gradually, however, his rea- 
son came back, and he woke to the full horrors of his con- 
dition. Then, like a caged lion he chafed and fumed, and 
resolved to be free. He could not die there, knowing that 
far away there was a blithesome little woman waiting for 
his coming, if, indeed, she had not ceased to think of him 
as among the living, — a state of things which he thought 
?ery probable, as he became aware of the fact that no one 
of his companions was acquainted with his real name. Kose 
was the only cognomen by which he was known, and the 
proud man shivered every time he heard that dear name 
cttered by the coarse, jesting lips around him. A horrid 


806 


ROSE MATHER. 


suit of dirty grey had been given him in place of the sto 
len uniform, and though at first he rebelled against thi 
filthy garments, he began ere long to think how they 
might aid him in his escape, inasmuch as they were the 
garb of the Confederates. Day and night he studied the 
best means of escape, until at last the attempt was made 
an 3 he stood one dark, rainy night, out on the highway 
a free man, breathing the pure breath of heaven, and rea 
3y to sell his life at any cost rather than go back again 
to the prison he had left. He had put his trust in God, 
and God had raised him up a fi’iend at once, who hryj 
seen him leave the prison, and greatly aided him in his 
escape, just as he had aided others, knowing the while 
that by. so doing he was putting his own life in jeopardy. 
But a staunch Unionist at heart, he was willing to brave 
everything for the cause, and it was through his instru- 
mentality and minute directions that Will Mather had 
finally reached the shelter of the mountains which separate 
North Carolina from Tennessee. He had found friends 
all along the route, true, loyal men, who had periled their 
lives for him; brave tender women, whose hands had 
ministered so kindly to his wants, and who had so cheer- 
fully divided with him their scanty meals, even though 
hunger was written upon their thin, haggard faces, and 
stared in their sunken eyes. And Will had taken down 
each name, and registered a vow that if ever he reached 
the North, these noble self-denying people should be re- 
warded, andif possible removed from a neighborhood 
where they suffered so much from privation and from the 
hands of their former friends, who, suspecting their sen- 
timents, heaped upon them every possible abuse. Bagged, 
bareheaded, footsore and worn, he came at last, at the 
close of a June day, to the entrance of a cave in the liilln 
to which he had been directed, and where, on the damp 


THE HUNTED S3LDIER. 


3(W 

earth, he slept so soundly from fatigue and exhaustion 
that the morning sun was shining through the entrance 
to the cave, and a robin, on a shrub growing near, wa*. 
trilling its morning song ere he awoke. The air, though 
damp from the water which trickled through the rocks, 
w’as close and stifling, and Will crept cautiously out from 
his hiding-place, and sitting down upon the ground 
Irank in the beauty and stillness of the summer morning. 
Exactly where he was he did not know, but he felt cer- 
tain that his face was toward the land where the Stars 
and Stripes were waving, and a thrill of joy ran through 
his veins as he thought of home and Hose, whose eyes by 
this time had grown so dim w'ith looking for him. “God 
take me safely to her,” he whispered, when up the moun- 
tain side came the sound of voices and the tramp of feet. 
Creeping to the farthest side of the cave, and crawling 
down beneath the shehdng rock where the cool waters 
were dripping, he hoped to avoid being seen. Up to 
this moment Will’s courage had never flagged, but now, 
when the Federal lines were not many miles away, and 
Rose and home seemed certain, he felt a great pang of 
fear, and his white lips whispered, “ God pity me 1 God 
help me, God save me, for his own glory, if not for Rose’s 
sake,” then, knee-deep in the pool of water, he stood with 
his body nearly double, while the voices and the feet came 
nearer, and at last stopped directly in front of his hiding 
place. . 

There were terrible oaths outside, and bitter denuncia- 
tions were breathed against any luckless Union man 
ffho might be lurking near, and then the light from the 
entrance of the cave was whoUy obscured, and Will saw 
that a man’s back was against the opening, as if some 
one were sitting there. Did they know of the cave 5 
Would they come in there, and if they did would thej 
find him? Will kept asking himself these question^ 


508 


ROSE MATHER. 


and hiifl breath camo gaspingly as he knew that the man 
whose back barred the entrance to his hiding-place wai 
the bitterest in his invectives against the Tankees, and 
the most anxious to find them. Something in his voio< 
wid language indicated both education and position sn- 
perior to his companions, who evidently looked up to 
him as their leader, calling him “ Square^*' and acquiescing 
readily when, after the lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, he 
suggested that they go higher up the mountain to a 
gorge where some of the fugitives had heretofore taken 
iefuge. 

Five minutes more and the footsteps and voices were 
hoard far up the mountain, and Will breathed more 
freely again, and kneeling down in the pool of water, 
thanked God who had turned the danger aside, and kept 
him a little longer. He did not dare leave the cave, but 
he came out from under the rock, and stretching himself 
upon the ground tried to wring and dry the tatters 
which hung so loosely upon him. 

It was two days since he had tasted food, and the long 
fast began to make itself felt in the keen pangs of hun- 
ger. Surely he could venture out toward the close of 
tke day, he thought, and see if there were not berries 
growing in the ledges, and when the sun was setting he 
crawled to the mouth of the cavern, where just in the 
best place for him to see it lay a huge corn-cake and 
slice of bacon, wrapped nicely in a bit of paper. 

How it came there he did not stop to ask. That it 
was there was sufficient for him then, and never had the 
costliest dinner, served on massive silver, tasted to hin^ 
half so well as did that bit of bacon with the coarse corn- 
bread. 

Refreshed and encouraged he went back to his hiding- 
place, intending to start again on his perilous joumej 


THE HUNTEP SOLDIER. 


80 « 


w*hen tLe mountain path gi’ew dark enough to warrani 
him in doing so. But soon after the sunsettiug a fearful 
storm came up, and in the i)itchy darkness of the cava 
Will hstened to the bellowing thunder roaring through 
the mountain gorges, and saw from the opening thr 
forked lightning which struck more than one taU tree 
near the place of his concealment. Fed by the rain 
which had fallen in torrents, the stream under the pro- 
jecting rock was beginning to rise and spread itself over 
the surface of the cave. It was up to his ankles now, 
and it rose so rapidly that Will was thinking of leaving 
the cave and groping his way as weU as he could to the 
westward, when his quick ear caught the sound as of 
two or more persons coming stealthily up the moun- 
tain side. Whoever they were they seemed to move 
with the utmost caution, and Will’s heart beat high as 
lie hoped it might be some brother fugitives seeking the 
shelter of the cave. The gleam of a lantern, however, 
and the same voice he had heard in the morning cursing 
the Yankees so bitterly dispelled that illusion, and in a 
tremor of ten’or he drew back in his watery quarters, 
crawling in the darkness to the farthest end of the cav- 
ern, and feeling the rising water flow over his knees as 
he waited for what might come next. 

“ Stay here, Charlie, while I go in. I know he must 
be here, and if he isn’t drowned by this time it’s just a 
special Providence, that’s all I have to say.” 

Surely that was no unfriendly voice, notwithstanding 
♦lie oaths of the morning, but still Will did not move 
nil til the stranger, who evidently knew eveiy turn and 
no^k of the cavern, was so near to him that the Ught 
from the dark lantern fell full upon his face and 
betrayed him at once. There was a thought of Bose, 
and the freedom he had almost regained, and then for* 


m 


ROSE MATHER. 


getting tlie friendly tones, Will gave a low, bitter moan 
and stretcliing out his hands, said imploringly, 

“Kill me here as well as anywhere, and let the sua 
pense be ended.” 

“ Kill you, my boy ? ’ and the stranger spoke cheorilj 
as he bent over poor Will and rubbed his clammy handa 
“What should I kill tjou for? I’ve had my eyes on you 
ever since yesterday evening, when I saw you creeping 
under the brushwood, and knew you were hunting for 
this cave. The ‘ Eefuge of Safety,’ I call it, and it has 
proved so to many a poor devil who like yourself has 
taken shelter here. I have never knovm one to fail of 
reaching the hapi^y land when once they got so far as 
this, so cheer up, my man. Paul HaveriU can swear a 
string of swears about the Yanks which wiU reach from 
here to Kichmond, if necessary, and then when the 
hounds are throvui off the track he can turn round and 
save the poor hunted rascal’s life. You are among your 
friends, so come out fr*om this puddle. You must be 
wetter than a rat. There’s a spring under the rocks, 
and it rises in a rain so as to fiU the cave sometimes. 
Here, Charlie, give us that shawl, his teeth are fairly 
chattering.” 

Thus talking, the stranger, who had announced him- 
self as Paul Haverill, led WiU out to where the boy 
Charlie stood, holding a bright plaid shawl in his hand, 
and looking curiously at the worn, drooping, sorry fig- 
ure emerging from the cave. It was a woman’s shawl, 
WiU knew, but it was very soft and w^arm, and he wrapt 

closely round him, for he was shaking with cold, and 
his tattered garments were wringing wet. Very few 
words were spoken, and those in a whisper, as thej went 
cautiously down the mountain untU they reached what 
seemed to be a road winding among the hiUs. This 


THE HUNTED SOLDIER. 


311 


they did not follow, but, striking into the field or pasture 
land beside it, kept to the right, and at a safe distance 
from it, lest some straggler might be abroad, and meet 
them face to face. Will Mather was enough acquainted 
with Southern customs not to be surprised to find here 
in the mountain wilds a substantial and even handsome- 
looking building, which, with its white walls and green 
blinds, seemed much like the farm-houses in New Eng- 
land. There was a light shining from the windows, and 
a woman’s brisk step was heard as they went toward the 
door; Paul Haverill coughing, to give warning of his ap- 
proach. 

“ All right !” was the pass- word by which they entered, 
and Will soon stood in the wide hall which ran through 
the entire building, and opened in the rear upon a broad 
piazza. 

“ Better take him to Miss Maude’s room,” the woman 
said, and Will followed on to an upper chamber, which, 
he would have known at once belonged to a young lady. 

It was not as elegantly furnished as his own sleeping 
apartment at home, but it bore unmistakable marks of 
taste and refinement; while the air of pure gentle wo- 
manhood, which pervaded it, brought Bose very vividly 
before him. 

“This is my niece’s room, Maude De Vere,” Mr. Hav- 
erdl explained, when they were alone, and Will was dry- 
ing himself before the fire, kindled by the woman who 
had admitted them, and who. Will saw, was a mulatto. 
“ My niece is not at home now,” he continued. “ She is 
in South Carolina; has been gone several months on a 
visit to old Judge Tunbridge, her mother’s uncle. I m 
ner mother’s brother, and she and the boy Charlie have 
lived with me since the first year of the war. Their fa- 
ther was Captain De Vere, from North Carolina, and waa 


812 


BOSE MATHER. 


killed at the first Bull Run. Nelly, tlieir mother, nevei 
held up her head after that. I was with her when she 
died, and brought the chil Iren home. Maude is twenty 
LOW, and Charhe fouHeen. I am their guardian. 
Maude is Union, Charlie secesh, but safe. They have a 
jreat deal of property here and there, though how it 
will come through the w'ar, the Lord only knows.*’ 

Will was glad to see that his host was inclined to talk 
on without waiting for answers, and he kept quiet, while 
Mr. Haverill continued: 

“ I dare say you wonder to find a chap hke me among 
people who are so bitter against you Yankees, and I 
sometimes wonder at myself. I am South Carolina born, 
and ought to be foremost in the rebellion ; but hanged if 
I can see that it is right. Why, I might as well set 
up a government of my own, here on the Oak Plantation, 
and refuse to come under any civilized laws ]\Iind, 
though, I don’t think the South all wrong, — not a bit of 
it. The North did bully us, and the election of Mr. Lin- 
coln was particularly obnoxious to the majority here, 
but we had no right to secede, and you did your duty 
trying to di-ive us back. For a spell I kept quiet,— didn’t 
take either side; or if I did, I wanted the Soutli to beat, 
as all my interests are here. But when our folks got to 
abusing their prisoners so shamefully, and told so many 
(les byway of deceiving us feUowo who live among the hiUs 
and only get the news once or twice a week, I changed 
my politics, and after the day when I found one of my 
neighbors, and the best man that ever breathed, too, 
Sung Ui a tree hke a dog, with the word ‘ Abohtionist ’ 
pinned to his coat, I made a vow that every energy 3 
had should be given to caring for and helping just such 
wretches as you, and if I’ve helped one I’ve helped • 


THE HUNTED SOLDIER. 


813 


Ihonsaiicl. TVliy, at least a hundred have slept in thi» 
very room, — Maude's room; for, as I told you, she is 
Lnion to the backbone, and led one chap across the 
mountain herself. She is a regular Di Vernon, and ia 
Dot afraid of the very de’iL When she went away sh€( 
bade me put them in here, as the room least liable to 
Busjncion To the folks around me I am tlie roughest 
kind of a Secessionist, and I suppose nobody can beat 
me swearing about the Yankees, just to hoodwink ’em, 
you know. I suppose that’s wi'ong; my wife would say 
so; she was a saint when she was here, — she is an angel 
now. Sh^ed five years ago, — before the war broke out; 
and Lots, the woman you saw, has been my housekeeper 
since. I shouldn’t hke the North to take her from me. 
They tried it once, — when a squad of ’em ransacked my 
house, — and I was sick in bed. Maude threatened to 
blow their brains out: and, sir, she would have done it, 
too, if the scamps hadn’t let Lois alone. 

“ I don’t agree tNuth your folks on the nigger question, 
though none of mine has run away since the Proclama- 
tion, which I did not like. They know, too, they are 
free, or will be when the Yankees come, for I took pains 
to tell them, and gave them liberty to cut stick for the 
Federal lines as soon as they pleased; but they staid, and 
gi'eat lielp I find them in the business I’m caiTying on. 
They are constantly on the lookout for runaways or refu- 
gees, and are quite as good as bloodhounds to scent one. 
They told me about yow, and I watched and saw you go 
into that cave, which is on my land, and which few know 
about, or if they do they think it a springhole, and never 
I roam tliat anybody can hide in there. Somebody else 
must have seen you, too, for word came that a man was 
tiiding in ’he mountains, and as the acknowledged leader 
of as hard a set as ever hunted a Yankee, I went with 

14 


814 


ROSE MATHER 


’em to 6ncl you and carried in my pocket that bacoi 
and corn bread which I managed to drop into the cav€ 
when I sat with my back against it. I knew you must 
be hungry, and it might be some time before I coul I 
come to youi’ aid. We didn’t find the chap; but to-mor 
row they’ll be at it again, and so, while I help ’em hunt 
for a man about your build, you will stay in the room 
in Lois’s charge. Maude has a good many gimcracka 
here, such as books and things, which may amuse you. 
She is coming home by and by. The house is very dif- 
ferent then. You ought to see Maude. We are very 
proud of her. That’s her pictiu’e, only not half so good- 
looking,” and he pointed to a small oil painting hanging 
above the mantel. 

It was a splendid head, and the glossy black hair 
bound about it in heavy braids gave it a still more regal 
look. The eyes, too, were black, but very soft and gen- 
tle in their expression, though something about them 
gave the impression that they might flash and blaze bril- 
liantly under excitement. It was a beautiful face, and 
Will did not wonder that his host was proud of 
his niece, — prouder even than of the pale-faced, delicate 
boy, who next day, while the hunt for the runaway went 
cn among the mountains, tried to entertain Will Mather 
by telling him of his old home in North Carolina, and 
now happy they were there before the war came and 
took his father away. 

“ I don’t see it in the light Uncle Paul and sister do,* 
Charlie said. I don’t want them to catch and torment 

he prisoners, or murder folks who don’t think as they 
do; but I do want our side to succeed, and when I hear 
of a victory I say * Hurrah for the Confederacy !* I can’t 
help it \^hen I think of father, who wa^ killed bj the 
Yankees, and all the trouble the war has brought. I’m 


THE HUNTEU SOLDIER. 


815 


willing to work like a dog for the refugees and prisonersj 
and I’d die sooner than betray one, but if I was a man 
Fd join Mr. Davis’s army sui-e.” 

The pale face of the boy was flushed all over, and hie 
dark eyes burned with Southern fire as he frautlj 
avowed his sentiments, and Will Mather could not re- 
press a smile at this noble specimen of a Southern rebel 

“ I like you, my boy, for your frankness,” he said, 
“ and when the war is over, 1 shall have to send for you 
to come North and be cured of your treason.” 

“ It is not treason** and the boy stamped his girlish 
foot. “It is not treason any more than the views held 
by the Revolutionary soldiers. Didn’t the colonies se- 
cede from England, and does anybody call Washington a 
traitor now ? I tell you it is success which decides the 
nature of the thing. If we succeed, future historians will 
speak of us as patriots, as a persecuted people, who gave 
our lives in defence of our homes and firesides.” 

“ You won’t succeed, my poor boy. The Confederacy 
is gasping its last breath. You will be conquered at the 
last, and then what have you gained ?” 

“Nothing, — nothing but ruin I” and the tears poured 
over the white face of this defender of Southern rights. 

Soon recovering himself, however, he exclaimed, 
proudly : 

“ We may be conquered, but not subjugated Ion 
ean’t do that with all your countless hordes of men, and 
your millions of money. The North can never subjugate 
the South. We may lay down our arms because we have 
00 other alternative, but we shall still think the same, 
and feel the same as we do now.” 

Here was a curious study for Will Mather, who wa« 
surprised to find such maturity of thought and so strong 
determination in one so young and frail 


S16 


ROSE MATHER. 


“No wonder it is liard to conquer a people composed 
■)f such elements/ he thought, and he was about to con- 
tinue the ccnvcrsation when he was startled by a loud 
blast from a horn among the hills. 

* They’ve caught some .one. They always do that ac 
h kind of exultation,” the boy exclaimed, wringing hit 
bands, and evincing as much distress as he had hereto- 
fore shown bitterness against the opjDOsing party. 

It was a poor refugee from a neighboring county, 
whom, in spite of Paul Haveiill’s precautions, they had 
found in a hollow tree, and whom they brought more 
dead than alive down to the Oak Plantation, amid vocif- 
erous cries of “Tar and feather him!” “ Hang him to a 
sour-apple tree!” “Give him a taste of the halter I” 
“ Make him an example to all other sneaking Yankee 
sympathizers !” 

With his face as white as marble, and his lips set firm- 
ly together, Paul Haverill stood in the midst of the noisy 
group which he tried to quiet. 

“Let us try him by jury,” he said, and something in 
his voice reassured the frightened, haggard wretch, who 
had seen his house burned down and his son shot before 
his very eyes, and of course expected no mercy. 

The trial by jury proved popular, and then Paul Hav- 
crill suggested that a judge be chosen in the person oi 
some one who had lost a near friend in the war, and was 
.jj course competent to mete out full justice to the erbn- 
aial ~ “ Charhe, for instance,” and his eye fell on the 
‘ooy, who had joined the crowd and was standing close 
oy the prisoner. The boy caught his uncle’s meaning at 
3nce, and exclaimed : 

“Yes, let me be the judge. My father was kUIed at 
Bull Run. My mother died of griel Surely I may 
decide.” 


THE HUNTED SOLDIER 


SVi 


CLarlie De Vere was a favorite with the men, whc 
knew how staunch a Confederate he was, and, waiving lh< 
trial for want of time, they said: 

“ Charlie sHaT decide whether we hang, di'own, wh'.\ 
or tar and feather the prisoner at the bar.” 

Then, with far more energy and fire than had charao 
terized his vindication of the South, Charlie De Vere 
pleaded for the criminal, that they would let him go, 
‘*Just this once, for father’s sake, and mine, and 
Maude’s,” he said; and, at the mention of Maude, the 
dark brows began to clear, and the scowhng faces grew 
more lenient in their expression, for Maude De Vere was 
worshiped by the rough men of the mountains, who, 
though they knew her sympathies were on the Union 
side, made an exception in her favor, and held her per- 
son and opinions sacred. For her sake, they would let 
their captive go, giving him warning to leave the neigh- 
borhood at once, nor let himself be seen again in their 
midst while the war lasted. 

And thus it chanced that Will Mather had a compan- 
ion in his wanderings, which were renewed the following 
day; the boy Charlie acting as guide through the most 
dangerous part of the way, and at last bidding him 
good-bye, with great tears in his eyes, as he said: 

“I hope you won’t be caught; but I don’t know, the 
woods are full of our soldiers. Travel at night, and hide 
through the day. Trust no one, tut the negroes: and if 
yoTi are captured, ask for mercy in sister’s name. Every 
body knrws Maude De Vere.” 


.6 


BOSE MATHEB. 



CHAPTER xxvm 

THE DEAD ALIVE. 

T was the night of the third of July, the anniveT' 
sary, as she supposed, of her husband’s death, 
and Rose was sitting uj) unusually late. Sh€ 
could not sleep for thinking of one year ago, and the 
white-faced man who lay upon the battle-field with the 
rain falhng upon him. 

It was a clear starlight night, and she leaned many 
times from her open window and looked up at the kindly 
eyes keeping watch above her. But she did not see the 
figure coming down the street and up the walk to their 
own door; the figure of a worn-out soldier, who from 
the prison at Salisbury had escaped to Tennessee, and 
had come from thence straight on until the midnight 
train droj^ped him at the Rockland station. 

The light was behind her, and Will saw her distinctly 
as he went up the avenue, and he stopped a moment to 
look at her. She was very pale, and much thinner than 
when he saw her last, but never, even on her bridal day, 
had she seemed so beautiful to him as then, when lean- 
ing from her window, and apparently listening for some- 
thing. 

It was the sound of his footsteps as he came up thf 
walk which had attracted her attention, and when it 
ceased so suddenly as he stopped under the trees, she 
felt a momentary pang of fear, for burglars had been very 
common in the town that summer. Possibly this was 
one ol the robbers, and Rose was thinking of alarming 
the house, when the figure emerged from under th# 


THE DEAD ALIVE. 


31 ^ 


shadow ot the trees, and came directly up beneath the 
window, while a voice which made Rose’s blood curdle 
in her veins, called softly, 

'* Rose, darling, is it you?” 

ilad the dead come back to life? Was that her bus 
hand’s voice, and that his step in the lower hall ? Rose 
had supposed the front door bolted. She had not heard 
it open, and now, when the steps sounded upon the 
stairs, her heart gave one throb of fear, as all the old 
superstitious stories of New England lore rushed to her 
mind. Perhaps on this anniversary of his death he had 
come back to see her. And perhaps 

Rose did not finish the sentence, for the opening of 
her own door disclosed the wasted figure of a man wear- 
ing the army blue, his face very pale, but lighted up with 
perfect joy as he stretched his arms toward the shrink- 
ing woman by the window, and said: 

“ Come to me, darling; I am no ghost.” 

Then she went to him, but uttered no sound. Her 
heart was too full for that, and seemed bursting from 
her throat as she laid her head upon the bosom of her 
husband, and felt his arms around her waist and neck. 
Her stillness frightened him, it was so unlike her, and 
lifting her from the floor, he took her in his lap, and said 
to her: 

“ Speak to me. Rose. Let me hear your voice onca 
more. You thought I was dead, and you’ve been st 
•orry.” 

Yes, killed at Gettysburg,” came gaspingly at last; 
and then a storm of tears and kisses fell upon Will’s face, 
and Rose’s arms were thrown about his neck as she trie 
to tell him how great was her joy to have him back 

I have been so lonely,” she said, “ for everybody ii 


ROSE MATHER 


520 

gone. Jimmie ami Anuio, and pooi Tom, too, is a prif 
oner at last, so mother and I are all alone, excej -t ” 

Just then it occurred to her that her husband had nr 
fospicion of the great joy in store for him. 

“How shall I tell him?” she thought, and her eyo^ 
went from his face to the basket and chair where bab; ? 
clothes were lying. 

The httle white dress, with its shoulder knots of blue , 
the flannels and the soft wool socks were all there iu 
plain sight, and Will saw them, too, as his eye followed 
Rose’s. 

“ Rose, tell me, what is that ? What does it mean ?' 
he asked, and then, without a word. Rose led him intc 
the adjoining room, where in his crib slumbered her 
beautiful boy , — their beautiful boy rather. He was hers 
alone no longer, for the father was there now, and the 
happiest moment he had ever known was that when he 
knelt by his baby’s cradle, and felt how much he had for 
which to thank his Maker. He could not wait till morn- 
ing before he heard thv sound of his first-born’s voice, 
and he took him at once in his arms, every pulse thrilling 
with pride and exquisite delight, as he felt the soft, baby 
hands in his own, and looked into the beautiful dark 
eyes which met his so wonderingly as baby awoke and 
gazed up into his face. It was not afraid of him, and 
Rose almost danced with joy as she saw it smile in itf 
father’s face, and then turn slilj away. 

“It was so terrible till baby came last Christmas,” she 
said, beginning to explain how they believed him dead, 
and how much she had suffered. “Even baby did not 
make me as glad as it ought,” she continued, “ for I could 
not forget how happy you would have been to come 
home and find him here, and now you’ve come. God ia 
very, very good; I love him now, WiU, better, I hope. 


THE DEAD AUTB. 


821 


1 love yen, or baby, or anything. IVe given babj to Him, 
and given myself, too, but he had to punish me so hard 
before I would do it.” 

Then together the re-united couple knelt and thankel 
the Father who had remembered them so mercifully, and 
Asked that henceforth their Uves might be dedicated to 
his service, and all they had be subject to his will 
There was no more sleep iu the Mather mansion that 
night, for by the time Mrs. Carleton and the servants had 
recovered from their surprise and joy, the early morning 
was red in the east, and the sun was just beginning to 
show the returned soldier how pleasant and beautiful 
his home was looking. 

The people of Rockland had not intended to have 
much of a celebration on that Fourth of July. The 
churchyard was too full of soldiers’ graves, and the war- 
clouds were still too dark over the land, while the battle 
of the Wilderness, where so many had perished, was too 
fresh in their minds to admit of much festmty ; but 
when it was known that WiQ Mather had come home the 
town was all on fire with excitement. Every bell was 
rung, and the cannon of Bill Baker memory bellowed 
forth its welcome, while in the evening impromptu fire- 
works attested to the x)eople’s delight. Then followed 
many days of delicious quiet in which Will told his wife 
ard mother the story of his wanderings, but said very 
Idtle of his Hfe in Salisbury. That was something he 
could not mention without a shudder, and so he passed 
it over iu silence, choosing rather to teU of his journey 
across the mountains, where so many friendly hands had 
been stretched out to help him. He had every name 
upon paper, and was only waiting for an opportunity to 
show his gratitude in some tangible form. Especially 
was he gi-ateful to Paul HaveriU, whose name became ■ 


822 


BOSE MATHER. 


household word, together with that of Charlie and Mandt 
De Vere. Of her Rose thought so often, wishing she 
could see her, and resolving when the war waa ovci 
either to write at once or go all the way to the Monn 
Uins of Tennessee to find her. 

“ Poor Tom I” she often sighed. “ If he could only fal. 
into so friendly hands.” 

But everything pertaining to Tom was shrouded in 
gloom. The last they heard he was in Columbia, while 
»Timmie still pined in Andersonville, if indeed he had not 
4ied amid its horrors. Exchanged prisoners were con- 
stantly arriving at Annapolis, where both Mrs. Simms 
and Annie were, and every letter from the latter waa 
eagerly torn open by Rose in hopes that it might con- 
tain some news of her Brothers. But there was none, 
and the mourning garments which, with her husband’s 
return, were exchanged for hghter, airier ones, seemed 
only laid aside for a few weeks until word should come 
that one or both of her brothers were with the dead 
whose graves were far away beneath a Southern sky. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE HEROINE OF THE MOUNTAIN. 

F the three captives, WiQ Mather, Jimmie, and 
Tom, the latter had suffered the least as a pris- 
^ oner of war. A strong Freemason, he had 
found friends at Columbia, where chance threw in hig 
way a near relation of his dead wife and a former class- 
mate. Though firmly believing in the Southern cause 
Joe Haskell from the first befriended Captain Caiietoo 



TBJt HEKOINE OF THE MOUNTAIN. 


823 


whom he finuUy helped to escape, giving him money, and 
BO far as he was able, directions where to go and whom 
to ask for aid. Tom’s imprisonment had been of short 
duration, and thus it was, with vigor unimpaired and 
Bpiiits unbroken, that he found himself free on that very 
night when Will Mather lay sleeping in the cave among 
the mountains of Tennessee. But that ‘*Kefuge of 
Safety ” was many, many miles away, and Tom’s route to 
the land of freedom was a longer and far more danger- 
ous one than Will’s had been. Still Tom had in his fa- 
vor health and strength, together with a knack of pass- 
ing himself off as a Southerner whenever an opportu- 
nity was presented, and so for a week or more he 
proceeded with comparatively httle trouble ; but at 
the end of that time dangers and difficulties beset him 
at every step, while more than once death or recapture 
stared him in the face, either from the close proximity of 
his pursuers, or the pertinacity of the blood-hounds 
which were set upon his track. Escape at times seemed 
impossible, and Tom’s courage and strength were begin- 
ning to give way, when one night, toward the last of 
June, he found himself in a negTO cabin, and an occupant 
of a bed whose covering, though impregnated with the 
peculiar odor of the sable-hued faces around him, seemed 
the very embodiment of sweetness and cleanliness to the 
tired and foot-sore man, who nearly all his life had slept 
in the finest linen, with lace or silken hangings about hia 
bed. For linen now there was a ragged quilt, and the 
bed was festooned with cobwebs, while fr*om the black- 
ened rafters hung bundles of herbs and stiings of pep- 
pers, alternated here and there with the grimy articles of 
clothing which old Hetty had washed that day for her 
own “boys,” and in consequence of the rain had hung ix 
her cabin to dry. Coarse, heavy shiits they W'ere, bnf 


^24 


RUSE MATHER. 


Tom, as he watched them drying on the pole, fell tc 
coveting the uncouth things, and thought hjw soft and 
nice they would feel on his rough flesh. Then he 
thought of home and Rose, and wondered what she 
would say could she look in upon him in that negro hut 
with all those stalwart boys sitting by, while Hetty, theii 
mother, cooked the corn-cake, and fried the slice ol 
bacon for supper. Two sat just where Tom could sec 
them, while the third was near the door, keeping a 
constant watch on the circuitous path leading from the 
cabin to a large dwelling on the knoll, — “ Marsr’s house,” 
— where to-night a number of young people were assem- 
bled in honor of the return of the son and heir, Lieuh 
Arthur, who had been in so many battles, and had a 
taste of prison hfe at the North. 

Though bitterly opposed to the Unionists, Arthur was 
truthful, almost to a fault, as some of his auditors 
thought to whom he was recounting the incidents of his 
prison life. Comfortable beds, decent bread, well-cooked 
meat, with plenty of pure air and water, he had received 
from the hands of his enemies; and once, when for a 
few days he was sick, he had been fed with toast and 
jelly, and tea quite as good as Hetty could make, he 
said. And while he talked more than one present 
thought of the Southern prisons, where so many mer 
were dying from starvation and neglect; and one young 
girl’s eyes flashed angrily, and her nostrils quivered with 
passion as she burst out with the exclamation : 

** That’s the story most of our prisoners tell when thej 
come back to us. Think you a like report will be car« 
ried North, if the poor wretches ever live to get there 1 
I think it a shame to allow such suffering in our midst.” 

This speech, which had in it the ring of Unionism, did 
not startle the hearers as much as might be eipe^cM 


THE HEROINE OE IHE MOUNTAIN S2t 

They were accustomed to Maude De Yere’s outspoken 
way, and they knew that when she fii'st came among them 
Bhe was on the Federal side, and had opposed the sece&» 
sion movement with all the force of her girl nature. Am 
yet no harm had been threatened her, for Maude was one 
to whom all paid deference, and her clear arguments 
touching the right of secession had done much toward 
keeping alive a feeling of humanity for our prisoners in 
the family where for months she had been a guest. 

Squire Tunbridge — or Judge, as he was frequently 
called — was her near relative, and as his only daughter 
had died only two years before, and he was very lonely in 
his great house, he had invited Maude to visit him, and 
insisted upon her staying as long as possible. At first 
he had laughed at her Yankee preferences, but when the 
deaths at Salisbury and Andersonville increased so fast, 
he shook his head sadly and protested against the cruel- 
ty and neglect of the government. “ He did not beheve 
in killing men by inches,” he said; “ better shoot them at 
once.” And still he would not willingly have harbored 
a runaway on his premises, for fear of the odium which 
would attach to him if the fact were known. 

And so, when late that night, while Tom lay sleeping 
in Hetty’s cabin, and Hetty, up at the big house, was 
waiting upon the guests and making secret signs to Maude 
De Vere, there came a band of men into the yard in pur- 
suit of an escaped Yankee, the Squire roused at once, 
saying that no one could possibly be hidden on his plan* 
tation unless the blacks had secreted him. The negro 
houses were close by; they could look for themselves. He 
had supposed his servants loyal, but there was no telling 
In these perilous times; and the old man’s face flushed ae 
his Southern blood fixed his zeal for the Southern cause 

In her evening dress of white, with her bands jf glo^ 


.^26 


ROSE MArHEB. 


black Imir bound .ike a coronet around her regal brea 
Maude De Yere stood leaning upon the piano, her ej ei 
shining like b^irning coals, and her lips slightly parted 
as she listened to the conversation, and then darted ai 
anxious glance toward the spot where Hetty had beer 
standing a moment before. But Hetty had disappeared 
ind under cover of darkness was running and rolling and 
clipping down the steep wet path, which led to her cabin 
door. 

Arrived there, she seized the sleej^ing Tom by the arm, 
and exclaimed: 

“Wake up, mars’r, for de dear lord’s sake! De Sesh- 
ioners is come, and wiU be here in a minute I I’m mighty 
’fraid even Miss Maude can’t save you!” 

Tom was awake in a moment and fuUy alive to the 
danger of his condition. From the house on the knoU, 
he could hear the excited voices of his pursuers, and the 
sound made every pulse throb with fear. 

“TeU me what to do,” he said, and Hetty rephed, 

“Kin you bar smotherin’ for a speU? If you kin, git 
under de ole straw tick, and lie right still and flat, and 
you, Hal, buckle into marsr’s place, as if ’twas you who’ve 
been lyin’ here all the time.” 

Tom did not hesitate a moment, and had just straight- 
ened himself under the straw bed, and drawn a long 
breath as he felt Harry’s body settling down above him, 
when steps were heard coming down the path, and a 
young man’s voice asked of Hetty if she had any strangeri 
■here — “any Yankees, you know; because if you have — ” 
the young man. paused a moment and peered out intc 
Ihe night to make sure that no one was listening, then, in 
b whisper, he added, “ Keep them safe, and remember, 
Fieetfoot knows aU the passes of the mountains belweei 
here and Tennessee,” 


THE HEROINE OF THE FOUNTAIN. 


321 


A suppressed “ thank God I” might almost hare been 
heard beneath the straw bed, while old Hetty ex 
claimed, 

** The Lord bless Mars'r Arthur, and Miss Man le, too 
I know it is her doins.” 

And Hetty was right, for Tom Carleton owed his es 
cape from that great peril, to Maude De Vere rathei 
than to Lieutenant Arthur. When the order was given 
to search the negro quarters, Arthur had seen that in 
Maude’s face which constrained him to follow her when 
she beckoned to him to come out upon the piazza. 

“Arthur,” she said, putting her lips to his ear, “re- 
member the kind treatment you received from your en- 
emies, and be merciful. Don’t let them find him, for 
there is a Yankee soldier down in Hetty’s cabin. She 
told me to-night. Search her house yourself. Throw 
them off the track. Anything to mislead them. Be 
merciful Do it, Arthur, for my sake.” 

Always beautiful, Maude De Vere was dazzlingly so 
now, as she stood before the young ofl&cer pleading for 
Tom Carleton, and Arthur Tunbridge was more influenced 
by her beauty, than by any party feelings. Assuming a 
fierce, determined manner, he went back to the pursuers 
and said, 

“ It’s perfectly preposterous that one of those Unionists 
should come here for protection, when it is well known 
what we are. Still it may be. There’s no piece of ef- 
frontery they ai*6 not capable of. I know them well, jusi 
as I knew every nook and corner of the negro cabiua 
Stay here, gentlemen, and take some refreshment while 1 
search the quarters myself.” 

Arthur Tunbridge wore a lieutenant’s uniform. Ht 
had been in the army from the very first; he had fought 
in many a battle; had been a prisoner for four monfha 


528 


ROSE MATHER. 


while his father was known to be a staunch seceswonirt 
who was ready to sacrifice all he had for the success ol 
the cause he believed to bo so just and righteous. Theif 
could be no cheating in such a family as this, and so, 
while Maude De Vere wore her most winning smQe, and 
with her own hands served cake and coffee to the soldiers, 
Lieutenant Arthur went on his tour of investigation, and 
brought back word that not a trace of a runaway had he 
found, notwithstanding that every cabin on the premises 
had been visited. A savage oath was the answer to this 
report, but something in Maude’s eyes ke^ff the soldiers 
in check and made them tolerably civil, as they mounted 
their horses, and with a respectful good-night, rode ofl 
in an o^Dposite direction. 

With a feeling of security after hearing from Hetty of 
Maude De Vere, Tom came out from his hiding-place 
and ventured to the open door of the cabin, where he 
stood looking at the “ big house ” on the hill, from which 
the guests were just departing. He could hear their 
voices as they said good night, and fancied he could de- 
tect the clear, well-bred tones of Maude De Vere, in 
whom he began to feel so deeply interested. He could 
see the flutter of her white dress as she stood against 
a pillar of the piazza, with Aj-thur at her side, but hei 
back was toward him, and he could only see her well- 
shaped head, which sat so erect and proudly upon hei 
shoulders. She was very tall, Tom thought, comparing 
her with Mary, Annie, and petite Kose as she walked 
across the piazza with Arthur, who, from comparison 
seemed the shorter of the two. Profoundly grateful to hr i 
as his probable deliverer, Tom went back into the cabin 
and began to question Hetty with regard to the young 
lady. Who was she, and where did she live, and ho'V 
same she so strong a Unionist? 


THE HEROINE OF THE MUJNTAIN. 32^ 

** She’s Miss Maude De Yere, bred and born in the old 
North State, somewhars near Tar Kun.” Aunt Hetty said 
“Her father was killed at first Bull Eim, and ther 
her mother died, and she went to live with her unole of 
toward Tennessee in de hills. She’s got an awful sight 
of money, and heaps of niggers, — lazy, no count crit- 
ters, — who jest do nothing from morn till night. She and 
Miss Nettie, Mars’r Tunbridge’s gal, was great friends 
at school, and Miss Maude was here when she died, and 
has been here by spells ever since. Young mars’r think 
she mighty nice, but dis cnile don’t ’zactly know what 
Miss Maude do think of him. Reckon he’s too short, or 
too s essiouary to suit her.” 

This was Hetty’s account of the young lady, who at 
that very moment was listening with a defiant look upon 
her face to Arthur Tunbridge’s remonstrance agjiinst 
what he termed her treasonable principles. 

“ They will get you into trouble yet. The war is not 
over, as some would have you think. The North is 
greatly divided. Be warned of me, Maude, and do not 
run such risks as you do by openly avowing your Union 
sentiments. Think what it would be to me if harm 
should befall you, Maude.” 

Arthur spoke very gently now, while a deep flush 
mounted to his beardless cheek, but met with no reflec- 
tion from Maud® De Yere’s face. Only her eyes kindled 
and grew blacker, if possible, as she listened to him, 
first with scorn, when he spoke of treason, and then 
with pity when lie spoke of himself, and the pain it 
would cause him if harm should come to her. 

Maude knew very well the nature of the feehngs with 
which her kinsman, young Arthur Tunbridge, regfirded 
her. At first she had been disposed to laugh at him, and 
his preference for an Amazon, as she styled herself. V ut 


830 


ROSE MATHER. 


thur had proved by actual measurement that in point ol 
height he excelled her by half an inch, while the registei 
showed that in point of age he had the advantage of her 
by more than four years, though Maude seemed the 
jldcr of the two. 

“ Don’t be foolish, Arthur, nor entertain fears for me,* 
she said. “ I am not afraid of Gen. Lee’s entire army, 
nor Grant’s either, for that matter. My home at Uncle 
Paul’s has been beset alternately by either party, and I 
have held a loaded pistol at the heads of both Federal 
and Confederate, when one was for leading away Char- 
lie’s favorite horse, and the other for coaxing off old 
Lois to cook the company’s rations. No, I am not 
afraid, and if necessary I will guide that poor wretch 
down in Hetty’s cabin safely to Tennessee.” 

Arthur’s face grew dark at once, and he said, half 
angrily: 

“Maude, let that man alone; let them all alone. It is 
not womanly for you to evince so much interest in such 
people. For your sake I’ll help this one get away, but 
that must be the last; and remember, it is done for your 
sake, with the expectation of reward. Do you consent 
to the terms ?” 

Maude’s nostrils quivered as she drew her tall figure 
to its full height, and answered back: 

“I could not prize the love I had to buy. No, Arthur; 
r have told you once that you are only my brother, just 
ts Nettie was my sister. Believe me, Arthur, I cannot 
you what you ask.” 

She spoke gently, kindly, now, for she pitied the young 
man whose sincerity she did not doubt, but whose love 
she could not return. He was not her equal, either 
physically or mentally, and the man who won Maude De 
Vere must be one to whom she could look up to aa i 


THE HEROINE OF THE MOUNTAIN. 


331 


roperior. Such an one she would make very happy, bui 
she would lead Arthur a wretched, miserable life, and shi 
knew it, and would save him from herself, even though 
there were many kindly, tc^nder feelings in her l eart foi 
the young lieutenant. 

She saw that he was angry with her, and as furthei 
conversation was useless, she left him and repaired tc 
her room, the windows of which overlooked Hetty’s cabin 

And there until daylight the noble girl sat watching 
lest their unwelcome visitors of the previous night, fail- 
ing to find their victim, should return and insist upon 
another search. As Maude De Vere said, she had held a 
loaded pistol at the head of both Federal and Confede- 
rate, when her uncle was sick, and the house was beset 
one week by one of the belligerent parties and the fol- 
lowing week by the other. She was afraid of nothing, 
and Tom Carleton, so long as she stood his sentinel, had 
little to fear from his pursuers. But she could not ward 
off the fever which for many days had been lurking in 
his veins, and which was increasing so fast that when 
the morning came he was too sick to rise, and lay moan- 
ing with the pain in his eyes and complaining of the 
heat, which, in that dark corner of the close cabin, and 
on that sultry summer morning, was intolerable. 

“ Mighty poorly, with face as red as them flowers in 
yer ha’r, and the veins in his forehead as big as my leg,” 
was the word which Hetty brought up to Maude D« 
Vere the next morning, and half an hour later Maude, 
in her pale buff cambric wrapper, with her black hail 
shining like satin, went down to Hetty’s cabin and stood 
beside Tom Carleton. 

He was sleeping for a few moments, and the drops oi 
perspiration were standing on his forehead and about 
his lips. He was not worn and emaciated, like the most 


882 


BOSE MATHER. 


of thfc prisoners and refugees whom Maude had seea 
His complexion, though bronzed from exposuie, had not 
that peculiar greyish appearance common to so many oJ 
ihe returned prisoners, while his forehead was veiy 
white, and his rich brown hair, damp with the perspira 
lion, clung about it in the soft, round curls so natural to it 

There was nothing in his personal appearance to awaken 
sympathy on the score of ill-treatment, and yet Maude 
felt herself strangely drawn toward him, guessing with 
a woman’s quick perception that he was somewhat above 
many whom it had been her privilege to befriend. And 
Maude, being human, did not hke him less for that. On 
the contrary, she the more readily brushed away the flies 
which were alighting upon his face, and with her own 
handkerchief, wiped the moisture from his brow, and 
then felt his rapid pulse. 

“ He ought not to stay in this place,” she said, and sh(. 
was revolving the propriety of boldly asking Squire Tun- 
bridge if he might be removed to the house, when Tom 
awoke and tiuned wonderiugly toward her. 

Ho knew it was Maude De Vere, and something in her 
face riveted his attention, making him wonder where he 
had seen somebody very hke her. 

“ You are sick,” she said to him kindly, as he attempted 
to rise on his elbow, and fell back again upon the squalid 
bed. “ I am afraid you are very sick, but you ai*e safe 
here, — that is, — yes, — I know you are safe. None but 
fiends would betray a sick man.” 

She spoke rapidly, and Tom saw the bright coloj 
deepen in her cheek, and her eyes flash with excite- 
ment. She was very beautiful, and Tom felt the influ 
ence of her beauty, and tried to draw the ragged quUt 
over him so as to hide the coarse, grey shirt Hetty had 
given him, and which was as unlike the immaculate linen 


THE HEROINE OF THE MOUNTAIN. 


388 


Tom Carle ton was accustomed to wear as it was possible 
to be. 

“You are Miss De Vere, I’m sure,” he said, “and yon 
we very kind. I shall not tax your hospitality long. I 
hope to go on to-night. Don’t stay here, Miss De Vere; 
7 )U must be uncomfortable. It’s hotter here than in 
tiassachusetts.” 

“ You are from New England, then ?” Maude asked, 
and Tom replied: 

“ From Boston, — yes, — your people hate us most of all 
I believe,” and Tom tried to smile, while Maude answer- 
ed him, 

“ It makes no difference to me whetlier you are from 
Maine or Oregon. You are sick and have come to us foi 
succor. I’ll do what I can to help you.” 

With the last words she was gone, her taU, Hthe figure 
bending gracefully under the low doorway, and the rus- 
tle of her fresh, clean garments leaving a pleasant sound 
in Tom Carleton’s ears. 


“ A sick Yankee down in Hetty’s cabin, — a Boston one 
at that, with his Wendell Phillips notions, and you want 
me to let him be brought up to this house, the house of a 
Southern gentleman, who, if he hates one of the dogs 
worse than another, hates the Massachusetts kind, whoso 
women have nothing to do but to write Abolition books 
about our niggers. No, indeed; he shall not come an 
inch, and by the Harry 111 send for the authorities and 
have him bundled off to jail before night, with his camp 
fever, and his Boston airs. Needn’t talk. See if I don’ 
do it, and I’ll have Hetty strung up and whipped for har- 
boring the villain. Treason under my very nose, and a 
Yankee, tool Go away, — go away, I tell you. I won’t 


834 


ROSE MATHER 


hear you. I hate ’em all for the cussedness .here iS ii 
’em.” 

This was Squire Tunbridge’s reply to Maude De Vere 
who had told him of Tom Carleton, and asked permifih 
sion to have him moved up to the house. Nothing 
daunted, Maude went close up to him, and her beautifuj 
eyes looked straight into his as she said : 

“Think if it was Arthur sick among his enemiea 
They were kind to him, he says, and remember Nettie, 
too. Had she hved she would have married a Northern 
man. You liked Kobert, and Nettie loved him. For her 
sake let this man be brought to the house. He will die 
there, where it is so close.” 

“ Serve him right for coming down here to fight us ; 
wish they were all dead. How are you going to get the 
rascal up that confounded hill ? Can he walk ?” 

Maude had gained her point, and with Mrs. Tunbridge, 
who had a soft, kind heart, she hastened to make ready 
a large, airy chamber, somewhat remote from the rooms 
occupied by the family and their frequent guests. It was 
not the best room in the house, but he w^ould be safer 
there than elsewhere, and Maude made it as inviting as 
possible, by pulhng the bed out from the corner to the 
centre of the room, covering the plain stand with a clean, 
white towel, and the table with a gaily-colored shawl ol 
her own. Then with Hetty and one of Hetty’s sons she 
started for the cabin, followed by the Squire himseU. 
Since the war began he had not seen a Yankee, and curi- 
osity as much as anything took him to Tom Carleton, ' 
whom he assailed with a string of epithets, telling him 
to see what he’d got by making war on people so much 
better than himself. Good enough for you,” he contin- 
ued, as, assisted by Hetty and Claib, Tom tried to walk 
Up the winding path, with Maude in front and the Squirt 


THE HEROINE OF THE MOUNTAIN 3iJ5 

In the rear. “Yes, good enough for you, if you die like 
a dog, and I dare say you will. Fevers go hard with you 
Bunker Hill chaps. (7Zai6, you villain, you are letting 
him faU. Don’t you see he hasn’t strength to walk 1 
Dairy him, you rascal!” And thus changing the naturo 
Df his tirade the Squire thrust his cane against Tom’s 
back by way of assisting him up the hill. 

He was human if he was not quite consistent, and his 
face was very red, and he was very much out of breath 
when the house was reached at last, and Tom was com- 
fortably disposed in bed. 

“For thunder’s sake, Hetty, take that grey, niggery 
thing off from him,” the Squire said, pointing to the 
coarse shirt Tom had thought so nice, when he exchanged 
it for his dirty uniform. “ If you women are going to 
do a thing, do it decent. Arthur’s shirts won’t fit him, 
I reckon, for Arthur ain’t bigger than a pint of cider, 
but mine will. Fetch him one, and for gracious sake 
souse him first in the bath-tub. He needs it bad, for 
them prison pens ain’t none the neatest according to the 
tell.” 

In spite of his aversion to the Boston Yankees, the 
Judge had taken the ordering of this one into his own 
hands, and it was to him that Tom owed the refreshing 
bath which did him so much good, and abated the force 
of the fevfM which nevertheless ran high for many days, 
during which time Maude nursed him as carefully as if 
he had been her brother. Arthur was absent when the 
moving occurred, but when he found that it was dene, 
and the Yankee was actually an inmate of his father’e 
house, he concluded to make the best of it, merely re- 
marking that they would be in a pretty mess if th« 
•tory got out of their harboring a prisoner.” 

The Judge knew that, and in fancy he saw his hous# 


ROSE MATHER. 


burned down, and liimself, perhaps, ridden on a rail bj 
his justly incensed neighbors. The fear wore upon him 
terribly, until a new idea occurred to him. Maude, ai 
ererybody knew, had long been talking of going back to 
Tennessee, and what more natural than for Paul Haver 
LI to send an escort for her in the person of some 
xjusin or other, who was foolish enough to fall sick im- 
mediately after his arrival. This was a smart thought ; 
and as that veiy day at least a dozen people called at the 
Cedars, as the Judge called his place, so the dozen were 
told of “John Camp,” sick abed up stairs, “kind of 
cousin to Maude, and sent to see her home, by her Uncle 
Paul.” 

“Eight smart chap,” the Judge said, feeling amazed at 
the facility with which he invented falsehoods when onoe 
he began. “ Been a guerrilla there in the mountains, and 
done some tall fightin’, I reckon.” 

This was the Judge’s story, which his auditors be- 
lieved, wondering, some of them, why the visitor should 
occupy that back chamber in preference to the hand- 
some rooms in front. Still they had no suspicion of the 
truth. “John Camp” was accepted as a reahty, and 
kind inquiries were made after his welfare, as, day after 
day, the fever ran its course, and Maude De Vere bent 
over him, bathing his forehead, smoothing his pillows, 
and brushing his hair, her white fingers iuhin uating queer 
fancies into his brain, as, half unconscio^-^, he felt their 
touch upon his face, and saw the soft eyes above him. 

At first Arthur had kept aloof from Tom, but as the 
Utter grew better, he yielded to Maude’s entreaties and 
went in to see him, feeling intuitively that he was in the 
presence of a gentleman as well as of a superior. He 
could not dislike him, for there was something about Tom 
Carleton which disarmed him of ah prejudice, and many 


AKTHtJR Al^D MAUDE. 


S37 

a quiet, friendly talk the two had together on the all* 
absorbing topic of the day. 

He is a splendid fellow, if he is a Yankee,” was Ar- 
1 bur’s mental verdict, “and fine-looking, too,-^finer a 
hundred times than I,” and then there crept into hie 
heart a fear lest Maude should think as he did, and ere 
be was aware of it, he found himself fiercely jealous ol 
one who was at his mercy, and whom, if he chose, ha 
might have removed so easily. 


CHAPTER XXX. 



ARTHUR AND MAUDE. 

lOM CARLETON was able to start on his journey 
westward. Twice he had left his room and 
joined the family below, making himself so 
agreeable, and adapting himself so nicely to all the 
Judge’s crotchets that the old man confessed to a genu- 
ine liking for the Yankee rascal^ and expressed himself as 
unwilling to part with him. He had inquired into his 
family history, and, to his infinite delight, found that the 
elder Carleton, Tom’s father, was the very lawyer whose 
speech years ago, had been instrumental in sending back 
to bondage the Judge’s runaway negro, Hetty’s husband, 
vfhose grave was out by the garden wall, and whose wife 
»nd sons had rendered so difierent a service to the law- 
yer’s son. 

Tom’s face was scarlet when he thought of the differ- 
ence, and remembered how his father had worked to 
prove that the master was entitled to his property wher- 
15 


m 


ROSE MAlTaER. 


ever it was found. The Judge suspected the nature 
his thoughts, and with a forced laugh, said, good 
humoredly: 

“ You are more of an abolitionist than your father 
was, I see. Well, well, young man, times change, and 
we change with them. Old man Carleton did me a good 
ton, for Seth was worth two thousand dollars. I never 
nbused him, nor gave him a blow when I got him back. 
I only asked him how he liked freedom as far as he had 
gone, and he didn’t answer. He seemed broke down 
like, and in less than a year he died. He was the best 
hand I ever had, more’n half white. I cried when he 
died. I’ll be hanged if I didn’t. I told him to live 
and I’d set him free, and when I see how his eyes 
lighted up I made out his papers on the spot, and 
brought ’em to him, and he died with ’em in his hand, 
held so tight we could scarcely get ’em out, and I had 
’em buried with him in his coffin. 

“ ‘ Thank you, mars’r, God bless you for letting me die 
free, but it’s come too late. I would worked for you, 
raars’r, all the same, if you’d done this before. I wanted 
to be a man, and not a thing j a brute. You have been kind 
to me mars’r; thank you, thank you for liberty.’ 

“ These are Seth’s very words. I got ’em by heart, 
and I said them so much that I began to wonder if free- 
dom wasn’t better than slavery. But, bless you, my 
niggers was about all I had. I couldn’t give ’em up 
though I used to go out to Seth’s grave and think how 
he hugged the papers to the last, and wonder if the 
clause ‘ all men are born free and equal,’ didn’t mean the 
blacks. But the pesky war broke out, and drove all thia 
from my head. I hate the Yankees,— I hate Lincoln. 1 
hate the whole Union army, though I’U be blamed if I 
can hate you Got a wife, hey 


ARTHUK AND MAUDE. 


88 » 


H© turned abruptly to bis guest, who had listen 3 d with 
ko breathless interest to the story of poor Seth, tha j be di« J 
not see Maude De Vere, her eyes shining, and her cheek* 
‘lushed, as if she were under some strong excitement. 

Between herself and Arthur there had been a lon^ 
conversation concerning Captain Tom Oarleton, and 
3ther matters of greater interest to Maude. The “ John 
Camp ” ruse had succeeded well, and Maude had a fancy 
for making it do stiU more, by taking her patient in 
safety as far as her Uncle Haverill’s. She had received 
several letters from her uncle, urging her to come home, 
and in a week at most she was going. As one who had 
been expressly sent as her escort, Mr. Carleton would of 
course go with her, and in order to make the journey 
with perfect safety she would have Aidhur go too, and it 
was of this that she had spoken to him that morning 
when she found him in a little summer-house at the rear 
of the long garden. There was a dark shadow on Ar- 
thur’s face, as he hstened to Maude’s proposition, and 
when she had finished speaking, he rephed: 

“I intend to go with you, provided I am not ordeied 
back to the army, but, Maude, I will not have that Yan- 
kee soldier hanging on to us. We have done that for 
Uim which imperils our lives, and now that he is able to 
go on, let him take his chance alone. If hie is one half 
as keen as Yankees think themselves to be, he will get 
through unharmed. No, I won’t have him in our way.” 

“But think of the dangers to be encountered, the 
hordes of guerrillas which infest the mountains,” Maude 
pleaded, and in her earnestness she laid both her handa 
on Arthur’s shoulder, and stood leaning over him. 

“ Maude De Vere,” and Arthur spoke very decidedly 
•• ivhy are you so much interested in this man ? Tell me, 
end tell me truly, too, — have you learned to cai^ foi 


840 


BOSE MATHER. 


him more than j^on would for a common mldwr^ had aacfc 
a one come to yo-u as a runaway Yankee ? K you have^ 
litaude,” and Arthur’s face was white with determina- 
wion, “ if you have, by the heavens above us, I’ll put a 
built t through him myself, or worse than that, send him 
Dack to where he came from.” 

■* That would be an act worthy of a Tunbridge and a 
Southern gentleman,” Maude said, bitterly, and some- 
thing in her tone warned Arthur that he had gone too 
far, so changing his tactics, he said more gently: 

“ Sit here beside me, Maude, and listen to what I have 
to say. You know that I have loved you ever since I 
knew the meaning of the word, and it is not in my nature 
to give up w'hat my heart is set upon. You have 
refused me, but that does not matter. I want you 
for my wife ; I must have you for my wife. I know 
you are my superior, and I . am willing it should be 
so. You can fashion me into anything you like. I 
have screened, and hidden, and lied for that Yankee 
Carleton, just to gratify you. And when I first con- 
sented to act the traitor’s pai-t, I supposed he was most 
likely some coarse, ignorant boor, but he is not. Re- 
turning health shows him to be a well-bred gentleman, 
and decidedly good-looking, so much so that I have 
been jealous of him, Maude, not knowing to what your 
strange opinions might lead you.” 

“ You know of course he has a wife,” di*opped scorn- 
fully from Maude’s lips, and Arthur started quickly. 

“No, Maude, I did not know it. How came you by 
the knowledge ? Did he tell you so ?*’ 

“Not directly, but when he was out of his head, or 
susleep, he talked of Rose, and Annie, and Mary, and he 
called the latter his wife. That is the way I know," 
Maude said, and Arthur’s face cleared at once. 

“ Forgive me, Maude I was a fool to be jealous ol 


ABTHUR AND MAUDE. 


84i 


him. And now let us come to a fina? understanding. 
You have laughed at, and browbeaten, and queened il 
over me for years, but I have never despaired of winning 
you at the last. Once for all, then, will you oe my wife 1 
I must have you. I cannot be denied,” 

Arthui’ was in earnest now, and his pleadings werf 
eloquent with the love he felt for the girl, who listened 
in silence, and then said to him : 

Arthur, it cannot be. I should make you very un 
happy. We do not agree in any one point.” 

“But we ^^'ill agree. I promise to conform to youi 
opinions in everything. I’ll guide this man to Tennes- 
see, and give myself in future to the work of saving and 
helping the entire Yankee army. I’ll be a second Dan 
Ellis if you like. I’ll do anything but take the oath to 
the Union. I’ve sworn to stand by the other side I 
cannot break my word even for you, Maude.” 

Maude did not like him less for that last. There was 
Southern fire in her heart as well as his, and Southern 
blood in her veins, and though she clung to the )ld flag, 
there were moments when she felt a flush of pride in her 
misguided brothers, who fought so like heroes and be- 
lieved so heartUy in their cause. 

“Say, Maude,” Arthur continued, “'will you be my 
wife if I wiU do all this. Think how many lives I might 
save, and how much suffering relieve; there are so many 
chances where I could do good, for no one would sus- 
pect me. Give me some hope, Maude. Speak to me.” 

She was sitting with her face buried in her hands, as 
many another maiden has sat, “ counting the cost.” All 
her life long, Arthur Tunbridge had foUowed her with 
his love, till she was tired of the contest. Nothing she 
had ever said disheartened him. No rebuff, however 
severe, had avadod to keep him quiet. She knew he 


ROSE MATHER. 


542 

loved her, and perhaps she might in time love him. B 
would make tho old Judge and his wife so happy, while 
Chai-lie liked Ai-thur so much. Other people liked him. 
too. He was very popular, and she well knew that she 
j^as envied by many a proud maiden for the attention*? 
of the agreeable Lieut. Tunbridge. Besides, if Arthiu 
pledged himself to help the escape of prisoners, he would 
keep his word, and so through her much good might be 
done, and hearts made ha23py perhaps. Others had 
willingly sacrificed their lives for their country, and why 
should she shrink from sacrificing her happiness, if by 
it so many lives could be saved ? Was it not her duty 
to cast self aside and think only of the suffering she 
could reheve with Arthur as her ally. Maude was selling 
herself for her country, and with one great throb of bit- 
ter pain, she said at last : 

“I will deal frankly with you, Arthur, as I always 
have. You are not disagreeahJe to me. I like you very 
much as a friend. I miss you when you are away, and 
am glad when you come back ; stiU, you are not just 
what I have imagined my future husband to be. I like you 
for the good I know there is in you, and I may leaim to 
love you. I shah lead you a horrid Life if I do not, for 
it is not in my nature to affect what I do not feel. If I 
cannot love you, I shall learn to hate you, and that wid 
be terrible.” 

She was looking at him now, and though he winced a 
little beneath the blazing eyes, she looked so grand, 
ao beautiful, that, foolish youth as he was, he fancied 
her hate would be preferable to losing her, and so b« 
said: 

“ Go on, Maude, I am not afraid of the hatred if you a) 
ways look as you do now.” 


MAUDE AND TOM. 

Something like contempt leaped to her eyes then, but 
ihe put it aside, and continued: 

I will promise only on conditions. You shall see thii 
Ml. Carleton safely to my Uncle Paul’s. You shall be- 
friend and help every runaway you chance to find. You 
•hall relieve every suffering Union soldier when an op- 
portunity occurs. You shall use your mfluence for the 
prisoners, and seek to ameliorate their wretched condition. 
If you do this, Arthur, and do it faithfully, when the 
war is over I will try to answer yes. Are you satisfied ?” 

It was a very one-sided affair, and Arthur knew it; but 
love for Maude De Vere was the strongest passion of 
which he was capable, and he answered: 

“I am satisfied,” and kissed the cold han^^ which 
Maude placed in his, and thought what a regal creature 
he had won, and thought, too, how implicitly he would 
keep the contract, even if it involved a giving up of Jef- 
ferson Davis himseK into the enemy’s hands. 


CHAPTEE XXXL 



MAUDE AND TOM. 

T was then that Maude left him and went back 
to the house, where, standing in the door, she 
scanned the face and person of the man for 
5? hose safety in part she had pledged her heart and hand. 

Tom’s Uyut ensemble was good, and there was about him 
a certain air of gra9e and culture which showed itself in 
every movement. A stranger would have trusted him 
in a moment, and recognized the true manhood in bif 
expressive face. And Maude recognized it, as she nevef 


S44 


BOSE MATHER. 


had before, and the contrast between him and Axthui 
struck her plainfuUy. 

“ If Arthur were more like him, I could love him befc« 
ter,” she thought, just as the Judge asked the abrupt 
question : 

” You have a wife, hey ?” 

“ Of course he has,” Maude thought, and still she lis- 
tened for the answer. 

“ My wife died some years ago, before the war broke 
out. She was a Mary Williams, a near relative of the 
WiUiamses of Charleston. Perhaps you know them ?” 

“ Know ’em 1 I’ll bet I do I — the finest family in the 
State. And you married one of them?” the old Judge 
said, his manner indicating an increased respect for the 
man who had manled a Williams of Charleston. 

Maude knew the family, too, or rather knew of them, 
and remembered how, some years before, when she was 
at St. Mark’s, she had heard a Charleston young lady 
speaking of a Mrs. Carleton from Boston, who had re- 
cently died, and whose husband had been so kind and 
patient and tender, and was the most perfectly splendid 
looking man she ever saw.” 

Maude remembered this last distinctly, because it had 
called forth a reproof from the teacher who had overheard 
it, and who asked what kind of a man “ the most perfectly 
splendid-looking ” one could ba Maude had not thought 
of that incident in years, but it came back to her now as 
she stood dose to the man who had been so kind and 
tender to his sick, dying wife. He would be all that, she 
knew, for his manner was so quiet and grave and gentle, 
and then a great throb of pain swept over Maude Df 
Vere as she thought of Arthur and the pledge she nad 
given him. Maude could not analyze her feelings, or un- 
derstand why the knowing who Tom Carleton was, an4 


MAUDE AOT) TOM. 


84£ 


that he was also free, should make the world so desolate 
all on a sudden, and blot out the brightness of the sum- 
mer day which had seemed so pleasant at its beginning. 

“ I did it in part for him,” she said, feeling that in 
q ite of her pain there was something sweet even in such 
« sacrifice. 

She was still standing in the door, when Tom, turning 
a httle more toward his host, saw her, bis face lighting up 
at once, and the smile, which made him so handsome, 
breaking out about his mouth and showing his fine 
teeth. 

“ Ah, Miss De Vere, take this seat,” and with that well- 
bred pohteness so much a part of his family, he arose and 
offered her his chair. 

But Maude declined it, and took a seat instead upon a 
little camp stool near to the vine-wreathed columns of 
the piazza. 

It was very pleasant there that morning, and Maude, 
sitting against .that back-ground of green leaves, made a 
very pretty picture in her pink cambric wrapper, trimmed 
with white, white pendants in her ears, and a bunch of 
the sweet scented heliotrope in her hair, and at her throat 
where the smooth linen collar came together. And Tom 
enjoyed the picture very much, from the crown of satin 
hair, to the high-heeled slipper, with its bright ribbon ro- 
sette. It was not a Httle sHpper, like those which used 
to be in Tom’s dressing-room in Boston, when Mary was 
aHve, nor yet Hke the fairy things which Bose Mather 
wore. Nothing about Maude De Vere was small, but 
everything was admirably proportioned. She wore a 
seven glove and she wore a four boot. She measured just 
twentj^five inches around the waist, and five feet six from 
her head to her feet, and weighed one hundred and forty. 
A perfect Amazon, she called herself; but Tom Carletos 


S46 


ROSE MATHER. 


did not thinJi so. He knew she was a lai’ge type o! 
womanhood, but she was perfect in form and feature, 
and he would not have had her one whit smaller than she 
was, neither did he contrast her with any one he had 
ever known. She was so wholly unlike Mary and Ros€ 
and Annie, that comparison between them was impos 
sible. She was Miss De Yere, — Maude he called her tc 
himself, and the name was beginning to sound sweetly 
to him, as he daily grew more and more intimate "mth 
the queenly creature who bora it. He had buried his 
pale, proud-faced, but loving Mary; he had given up the 
gentle Annie, and surely he might think of Maude De 
Vere if he chose; and the sight of her sitting there before 
him with the rich color in her cheek, and the Southern 
fire in her eyes, stirred strange feelings in his heart, and 
made him so forgetful of what the Judge was saying to 
him, that the old man at last rose and walked away, 
leaving the two young people alone together. Tom had 
never talked much to Maude except upon sick-room topics, 
and he felt anxious to know if her mind corresponded 
with her face and form. Here was a good opportunity for 
testing her mental powers, and in the long, earnest conver- 
sation which ensued concerning men, and books, and poli- 
tics, Tom sifted her thoroughly, experiencing that pleasure 
which men of cultivation always experience when thrown 
in contact with a woman whose intelligence and endow- 
ments are equal to their own. Maude’s education had 
not been a superficial one, nor had it ceased with her 
leaving school. In her room at home there was a small 
library of choice books, which she read and studied each 
day together with her brother Charlie, whose education 
he superintended. Few persons North or South were 
Detter acquainted with the incidents and progress of the 
war, than she was. She had watched it from its beginnin|^ 


MAUDE AND TOM. 


347 


and with her father, from whom she had inherited her 
mperior mind, she had held many earoest argumentative 
discussions concerning the right and wrong of secession 
Maude had opposed it from the first, but her father had 
thought differently, ar.d carrying out his principles, had 
lost his life in the fii-st battle of Bull Run. Maude spok# 
of him to Tom, and her fine eyes were full of tears as she 
told of the dark, terrible days which preceded and fol- 
lowed the news of his death. 

“ The ball which struck him down went further than 
that; it killed mother, too, and made us orphans,” Maude 
said, and something in the tone of her voice, and the ex- 
pression of her face, puzzled Tom just as it had many 
times before, and carried him back to Bull Run, where it 
seemed to him he had seen a face like Maude De Vere’s. 

“Was your father killed in battle?” Tom asked, and 
Maude replied: 

“ No, sir; that is, he did not die on the battle-field. 
He was wounded, and crawled away into the woods, 
where they found him dead, sitting against a tree, with a 
Little Union drummer-boy lying right beside him, and 
father’s handkerchief bound round the poor bleeding 
stumps, for the little hands were both shot away. I’ve 
thought of that boy so often,” Manie said, “ and cried for 
him so much. I know father was kind to him, for the Little 
fellow was nestled close to him, Arthur said. He was 
there, and found my father, though he did not at first 
recognize him, as it was a number of years since he had 
seen him.” 

Tom was growing both interested and excited. He 
was beginning to find the key to that familiar look in 
Maude De Vere’s face, and, coming close to her he said; 

“ Were any prisoners taken near yom father. Miss Dt 
Vere ? Union prisoners, I mean ?” 

“Yes,” Maude replied. Arthur was a private, ihea, 


MS 


RC^SE MATHER. 


and, with another soldier, was prowling through the woodi 
when they came upon father, and two Union soldiers 
near him, — one a boy, Arthur said, and one an officer, 
whose ankle had been sprained. In their eagerness to cap* 
hu*e somebody they forgot my fathcir, and carried off the 
D\an and boy. Then they went back, and Arthur found, 
by some papers in the dead soldier’s pocket, that it wai 
father, and he had him decently buried at Manassas, with 
the little boy. I liked Arthur for that. I would never 
have forgiven him if he left that child in the woods. 
When the war is over, I am going to find the graves.” 

She was not weeping now, but her eyes had in them a 
strange glitter as they looked far off in the distance, as if 
in quest of those two graves. 

“Maude De Vere,” Tom Oarleton said, and at the 
sound, Maude started and blushed scarlet, “ you must 
forgive me if I call you Maude this once. It’s for the 
sake of your noble father, by whose side I stood when 
the spirit left his body, and went after that of the little 
drummer-boy, whose bleeding stumps were bound in 
your father’s handkerchief. I remember it well. I had 
sprained my ankle, and, with a lad of my company 
was trying to escape, when I heard the sound of some 
one singing that glorious chant of our church, ‘ Peace on 
earth, good will toward men.’ It sounded strangely 
there, amid the dead and dying, who had killed each 
other; but there was peace between the Confederate captain 
and the Federal boj, as they sang the familiar words. As 
well as we could, we cared for him. I wiped the blood 
from your father’s wound, and the boy brought him water 
from the brook, while he talked of his home in North 
Carolina; of his children who would never see him again; 
and of Nellie, his wife. It comes back to me with per- 
fect distinctness, and it is your father’s look in your eyei 


MAUDE AND TOM. 34i 

and face which has puzzled me so much Two soldiers 
wearing the Southren grey came up and captired us, 
and we were taken to Richmond. Surely, ;Miss De Vore, 
it is a special providence which has brought me at las4 
to you, the daughter of that man, and made you ths 
guardian angel, who has stood between me and recapture 
There is a meaning in it, if we could only find it.” 

Tom's fine eyes were bent upon Maude, and in his ex- 
citement he had grasped her hand, which did not lie as 
cold and pulseless in his as an hour before it had lain 
in Arthur’s. It throbbed and quivered now, but clung to 
Tom’s with a firm hold, which was not relaxed even when 
Arthur came up, his face growing dark and threatening 
as he saw the position of the two. 

Maude did not care for Arthur then, or think what 
that look in Tom’s kindhng eyes might mean. She only 
remembered that the man whose hand held hers so firmlj , 
had ministered to her dying father, had held the cup of 
water to his parched lip, had wiped the flowing blood 
from his face, and spoken to him kindlj words of sym 
pathy. 

Here was the answer to her prayer, that God would 
send her somebody who could tell her of her father’s last 
minutes. The somebody had come, and, in her gratitude 
to him, she could almost have knelt and worshiped him. 

“Oh, .Lrthur 1” she cried, “Captain Carleton is the very 
man you and Joe Newell captured at BuU Rim. He was 
with father when he died; he took care of him, and was 
•o kind until you came and took him.” 

And Maude’s eyes flashed with anything but afiection 
upon her lover, who for a moment could not speak foi 
his surprise. 

Curiously he looked at Tom, seeking for something on 
which to fasten a doubt, for he did not wish Manli 


850 


BOSE MAIHEB. 


to have a cause for gratitude to the Northern officei 
But the longer he gazed the less he doubted, llie fac< 
Df the lame officer in the Virginia woods came up distinct 
ly before him, and was too much like the face confront 
ng him to admit of a mistake, especially after Maude re- 
i>eated the substance of what she had heard from Captain 
C’ai leton. Arthur was convinced, and as Maude dropped 
Tom’s hand, he took it in his, and said: 

“ It is very strange that my first prize, over whose cap- 
ture I felt so proud, should fall again into my power. 
But this time you are safe, I reckon. I am older than I 
was three years ago, and not quite so thirsty for a Yan- 
kee’s blood. You did Maude’s father good service, it 
seems, and to prove that we rebels can be grateful and 
generous even to our foes, I will take you under my pro- 
tection as one of my party, when I escort Maude home to 
Tennessee, as I intend doing in a few days.” 

Maude’s face was white with passion as she listened to 
this patronizing speech, which had in it so much of as- 
sumed superiority over the man who smiled a very pecu- 
liar kind of smile, as he bowed his acknowledgment of 
Arthur’s kind attentions. Not a hint was there that 
Maude was head and front of the arrangement, — that for 
Tom’s sake she had pledged herself to one whoso infe- 
riority never struck her so painfully as now, when she 
saw him side by side with Captain Carleton. Arthur did 
not care to have Captain Carleton know how much he 
was indebted to Maude for his present pleasant quarters, 
ind his prospect of a safe transfer to the hills of Tennes* 
toe. But Tom, though never suspecting the whole truth, 
hd know that his gratitude for past and present kind- 
ness received from that Southern family was mainly due to 
Maude, whom he admired more and more, as the days 
wore on, and he learned to know her intimately. Ths 


MAUDE AND TOM. 


361 


shy reserve which since his convalescence she had mani- 
festod toward him, passed with the knowledge tiiat he 
had stood by her dying father, and she treated him as a 
friend with whom she had been acquainted all her life 
long. Occasionally, as something in Tom’s manner made 
her think that but for Arthur she might perhaps in timfi 
bear that relation toward him, which Mary Williams had 
borne, she felt a fierce throb of pain and a sense of such 
utter desolation, that she involuntarily rebelled against 
the life before her. But Maude was a brave, sensible girl. 
She had chosen her lot, she reasoned, and she would 
abide by it, and make Arthur as happy as she could. 
He was fulfilling his part of the contract well, as was 
proven by the terror-stricken creature, whom he had 
found hiding on the plantation, and had brought to 
Hetty’s cabin, where he now lay so weak, that it was 
impossible to take him along on that journey to Tennes- 
see. 

“ His time will come by and by,” Arthur said, when 
Maude expressed anxiety for him. “ I’ll land him safely 
at your Uncle Paul’s some night when you least expect it. 
My business now is with you and your Yankee captain.” 

Maude had asked that for the present nothing should 
be said with regard to their engagement. And so, 
though the Judge suspected that some definite arrange- 
ment had been made between his son and Maude, he did 
not know for certain, even when she stood before him at- 
tired for the journey. 

The Judge was sorry to part with Maude, and he was 
sorry to part with Tom. He Hked him because ho was 
B gentleman if he was a Yankee, and because his father 
had sent Seih back, (poor Seth, with his free papers in his 
coffin,) and because he had been kind to Maude’s father, 
%nd married Mary Williams, of the Charleston Wdliamseff 


552 


MATHER 


and c juld smoke a cob-pipo^ and enjoy it. These wm 
the things which recommended Tom to the old man, who 
shook his hand warmly at parting, saying to him; 

‘‘T hate Northern dogs mostly, but hanged I don^ 
like yon. May you get safely home, and if you do, mj 
o^vice is to stay there, and tell the rest of ’em to dc 
the same. They can’t whip us, — no, by George, ILe^ 
can t, even if they have got some advantage. The papeit 
say it was all a strategical trap, and we’d rather you’d 
have the places than not. You can’t take Richmond, — no, 
sir 1 We will die in the last ditch, every mother’s son 
of us ; and what is left will set the town on fire, and lei 
it go to thunder I” 

The old Judge was waxing very eloquent for a mac 
who had one Union soldier recruiting in Hetty’s cabin, 
and was bidding good-bye to another; but consistency 
was no part of war politics, and he rambled on, until 
Arthur cut him short by saying they could wait no longer. 
With Arthur as a safeguard in case of an attack from Con- 
federates, and Tom Carleton in case of an assault from the 
Unionists, Maude felt perfectly secure, and in quiet and 
safety she accomplished her journey, and was welcomed 
with open anus by Paul Haverill and Charlie. Arthur 
could only stop for a day among the bills. He might be 
ordered back to his regiment at any time, and if he got 
that other chap through he must be bestir himself, he said; 
and so he bade good-bye to Maude, in whom he had uu- 
plicit faith, and whose sober, quiet demeanor he tried tc 
ittribute to her sorrow at parting with him, 

“She does like me some, and by and by she will like 
me better,” he said, as he went his way, leaving her 
standing in the doorway of her uncle’s house, her face 
rery pale, and her hands pressed closely together, as if 
forcing back some bitter thought or silent pain. 


SUSPICION. 


859 


Turning once ere the winding road hid her from view 
Arthur kissed his hand to her gayly, while with a w/*ve 
of her handkerchief she re-entered the house, and neithei 
guessed dot dreamed how or when they would 
again. 


CHAPTEB XXXn 

SUSPICION. 

S I^AUDE DE VERE had insisted that Captaiu 
f Carleton should have her room, inasmuch as he 
would be more secure there; for, if the house 
was suspected and searched, a catastrophe Paul Haverill 
was constantly anticipating, no one would be likely to in- 
vade the sanctity of her apartment. 

And Tom found it so very pleasant, and quiet, and 
home-hke, that he was not at aU indisposed to Hnger for 
several days, particularly after Paul found an opportunity 
for sending to the Federal lines a ietter, which would 
teU the anxious friends in Rockland of his safety. This 
letter, which was dire^'ted to Mrs. WiUiam Mather, had 
been the direct means of Tom’s aiscertaining that his 
brother-in-law was not only alive, but had once shared 
in the hospitahties now so freely extended to himself. 
After learning this, Tom could not forbear tearing open 
the envelope, and adding in a postscript: 

“I ha 76 just heard that Will was, not many weeks smce, a guest 
In this very house where I am so kindly cared for. God bless the 
noble man who has saved so many lives, and ihe beautiful girl, hia 
niece, I cannot say enough in her praise. I do believe she would 
Ua for a Unionist any day. Will, it seems, did not see b»*. as she 


S54 


ROSE MATHER. 


was away when he was here; and perhaps it is just as well for jvKi, 
little Rose, that he did not. There is something in her eye, and 
voice, and carriage, which stirs strange thoughts and feelings in the 
hearts of us, savages, who have so long been deprived of ladies’ so 
eiety. She is a very queen among women.” 

That postscript was a most unlucky thought. The first 
part of Tom’s letter had been so guarded with regard to 
the people who befriended him, that no harm to them 
could possibly have accrued from its falling into hostile 
hands; but in the postscript he forgot himself, and as- 
sumed fr^rms of speech which pointed directly to Paul 
HaveriU and his niece, Maude De Vere. And so the 
guerrillas, who caught and half killed the refugee en- 
trusted with the letter, set themselves at once at work 
to find the “noble man who had the beautiful niece.” 
It was not a difficult task; and Paul Haverill, who had 
been looked upon as so rank a Secessionist, was sud- 
denly suspected of treason. 

Paul was popular and dangerous; while Maude De 
Vere, whose principles were well known, was too much 
beloved by the rough mountaineers, to allow of harm 
falling upon her at once. But the writer of that letter, 
— the “ Yankee Carleton ” — should not go unpunished, 
and just at sunset one afternoon, Lois, who had been at 
a neighboring cabin, came hurrying home, with that 
ashen hue upon her dark face which is the negro’s sign 
of paleness. 

“ Mass’r Paul was suspicioned of narborin’ somebody,” 
ihe said; and already the hordes of mountaineers were 
wsembhug around the Cross Koads, and concerting 
measures for surprising and entrapping the Yankea 

Chloe teU me she hear ’em say if they was perfectly 
•ore ’bout mass’r, and it wasn’t for Miss Maude, they’d 


SUSPICION. 


856 


■et the house on fire ; and they looks mighty like ihey*i 
fit to do it. The wust faces, Miss Maude, and they does 
Kwar awful ’bout the Yankee They’s got halters, and 
tar and feathers, and guns ” 

Lois was out of breath by this time, and even if sbi 
had not been, she would have paused with wonder at 
the face of her young mistress. Maude had listened in- 
tently to the first part of Lois’s story, but felt no emo- 
tion save that of scorn and contempt lor the men as- 
sembled at the Cross Eoads, and whom “Uncle Pam 
could manage so easily;” but when it came to the halter 
for the Yankee, her face turned white as marble, and in 
that moment of peril, she realized aU that Captain Carle- 
ton was to her, and knew what had been the result ol 
the last week’s daily intercourse with one so gifted and 
BO congenial. She knew too that he was not for her. 
Arthur Tunbridge stood in the way of that. She would 
keep her faith with him, but she would save Captain 
Carleton, or die. 

“ Lois,” she said, and there was no tremor in her voice, 
“ bring that dress I gave you last Christmas, — the one 
you think is so long. Your shawl and bonnet, too, and 
shoes; bring them to Captain Carleton’s room.” 

Lois comprehended her mistress at once, and hurried 
away to her cabin after the dress, whose extra length 
she had so often deplored, saying “ it wasn’t for such as 
her to wear switchin’ trains like the grand folks.” 

Meanwhile Maude had communicated with her uncle, 
who manifested no concern except for his guest, and 
oven for him he had no fears provided he could reach 
the cave in safety. To accomplish that was Maude's 
object, and as the Cross Eoads lay in that direction a 
great amount of tact and skill was aecoseary. But 


656 


BOSE MATHER. 


Maude was equal to any emergency, and half an hooi 
later there issued from Paul Haverill’s door, two figuref 
clad in female garments, and whom a casual observe! 
would have sworn were Maude De Vere and her servant 
Lois. Maude had a revolver in her pocket, and another 
in the basket she carried so carefully, and which wai 
supposed to contain the cups of jelly and custard she 
was taking a poor sick neighbor, whose house was up 
the mountain path. At her side, with the shuffling gait 
peculiar to Lois, Tom Carleton walked, his nicely black- 
ened face hidden in the deep shaker which Lois had 
worn for years, and his calico dress flopping awkwardly 
about his feet. Lois fortunately was very tall, and so 
her skirts did good service for the young man, whose 
powers of imitation were perfect, and who walked and 
looked exactly like the old colored woman watching his 
progress from an upper window, and declaring that she 
would almost “ swar it was herself.” 

At her side stood Charlie, a round spot of red burning 
on either pale cheek, and his slender hands grasping a re- 
volver, while occasionally his blue eyes looked eagerly 
along the mountain road, which as yet was quiet and 
lonely. 

“ I never thought to raise my hand against my own 
people,” he said, “ but if they harm Uncle Paul I shall 
shoot somebody.” 

The sun had been gone from sight for some little time, 
and the tall mountain shadows were lying thick and 
black across the valley, when up the road several horse- 
men came galloping, and Paul HaveriU’s house was ere 
long surrounded by a band of as rough, savage looking 
men as could well be found in the mountains of Tennessee. 

CaJmly and fearlessly Paul Haverill went out to mee< 


SUSPICION. 867 

tliem, asking why they were there, and why they seemed 
»o much excited. 

For a moment his old power over them asserted itsell 
again, and they hesitated to charge him with treason, oa 
they intended doing. But only for a brief space was 
there a calm, and then amid oaths and imprecations, and 
taunting sneers, and throats, they told him of the let- 
ter, and deriding him as a traitor, demanded the sneak- 
ing Yankee who had written that letter, and was now 
hidden in the house. To reason with such people was 
useless, and Paul Haverill did not try it. Standing upon 
his doorstep, with his grey hair blowing in the evening 
wind, and his hands deep in his pockets, he said, 

“I admit your charge in part. There has been a 
Union soldier in my house, — an escaped prisoner from 
Columbia. I did care for him, and I am neither ashamed 
nor afraid to own it. Fear is a stranger to old Paul 
Haverill, as any of you who tries to harm him will finch” 

“Never mind a speech, Paul,” said the leader of the 
men. “ Nobody wants to hurt you, though you deserve 
hanging, perhaps. What we want is the Yankee. Fetch 
him out, and let’s see how he’ll look dangling in the air.” 

“ Yes, fetch him out,” yelled a dozen voices in chorus. 
“ Bring out the Yankee, we want him. HaUo, puny face, 
are you a bad egg, too ?” they continued, as Charhe ap- 
peared in the door. 

“Shall I fire, Uncle Paul?” Charlie asked, and his 
uncle replied, 

“ By no means, unless you would have them on us like 
?r fives. Friends,” and he turned to the mob, which had 
been increased by some twenty or more, “friends, that 
man is gone; he is not here; he has left my house You 
fan search it if you hke.” 

“ Where’s Miss De Vere ?’ a coarse voice cried. “ Wi 


568 


BOSE MATHEa 


know her to be Union. She never tried :o cover that ai 
you, hoary old villain, did. She was out and out. Lei 
her come and say the Yankee is gone and we will believ< 
her.” 

“My niece, I regret to say, is not just now in oithc! 
She is gone with Lois to take some niclmacks to a sicl 
neighbor.” 

“ That’s so, boys. I met her myself os I came dowr 
the mountain,” called out a young man cf the company, 
who seemed to be superior to his associates. 

“ Gone with Lois, hey ? Then whoso woolly pate ia 
that?” responded a drunken brute, who, rising in his 
stirrups, fired a shot toward the garret window from 
which Lois in an unguarded moment had thrust her 
head. 

Others had seen her, too, and as this gave the lie to 
the story that Lois was gone, the maddened crowd 
pressed against the house, declaring their intention tc 
search it and hang any runaway they might find secreted 
here. It never occurred to them that the runaway could 
have been with Maude in Lois’s clothes; but the young 
man who met the two lone women saw the ruse at once, 
and infiuenced by Maude’s beauty and the remembrance 
of the sweet “ Good evening, Mark,” with which she had 
greeted him as he passed, he made his way to Charlie’s 
side and whispered, 

“ If you know where your sister has gone, and can warn 
her, do so at once. Tell her if she is tolerably safe to 
stay there and not return here to-night.” 

Charlie needed no second bidding, and stealing froir 
the rear of the house he was soon speeding up the moun- 
tain path in the direction of the cave. Meanwhile the 
seaich in Paul HaveriU’s house went on. Closets wen 
thrown open; beds were torn to pieces; cellars wen 


ra THE CAVE. 


85 » 


ransacked, and old Lois was dragged from the ash-nonse^ 
where she had taken refuge, while, worse than all, Tom 
Carleton's boots were found in the chamber where he 
had dressed so hurriedly, and the sight of these mad- 
dened the excited crowd, which, failing of finding their 
victim, began to clamor for Paul Haverill’s blood. Bui 
Paul kept them at bay. In the rear of the house was a 
small, dark room, to which there was but one entrance, 
and that a steep narrow stairway. Here Paul Haverih 
took refuge, and standing at the head of the stairs 
threatened to shoot the first man who should attempt to 
come up. They had not yet reached that state when 
they counted their lives as nothing, and so amid yells 
and oaths, and riding up and down the road, and drink- 
ing the fine grape wines with which the cellar was stocked, 
the hours of the short summer night wore on until just 
as the dawn was breaking in the east, the marauders put 
the finishing touch to their night’s debauch by setting 
fire to the house, and then starting in a body up the 
mountain side in the direction of the cave. 


CHAPTER XXXm. 

m THE CAVE. 

^eI^HE cave was dry and comparatively comfortable, 
and Tom felt as he entered it almost like going 
home. Will Mather had spent a day and a night 
•here, while better than all, Maude De Yere was with 
him, her bright eyes shining upon him through the dark- 
Dees, and her hands touching his as she groped aroim^ 


ROSE fcTATHEE. 


8d0 

for the candle her uncle had said 'was on a shelf in thi 
rock. 

It was j^esently found, and with the aid of the match 
Maude had brought with her a light was soon struck, iti 
flickering beams lighting up the dark recesses of the 
Mvem with a ghastly kind of light, which to Maude 
•eemed more terrible than the darkness. She was not 
afraid, but her nerves were shaken as only threatened 
danger to Tom Carleton could shake them, and she felt 
strangely alone on the wild mountain side and in that 
silent cavern. 

Tom did not seem like much of a protector in that 
woman's garb, but when, with a shake and a kick and a 
meiry laugh, he threw aside the bonnet, shawl and dress, 
and stood before her in his own proper person, minus 
the boots, she felt all her courage coming back, and with 
him beside her could have defied the entire Southern 
army. There was water enough in the spring to wash 
the black from his f?ce, and Maude lent her own pretty 
ruffled white apron for a towel, and then, when his 
toilet was completed, began to speak of returning. 

“ At this hour, and alone, with the road full of rob- 
bers? Never, Maude, never! You must either stay 
hero with me, or I shall go back with you,” Tom said, 
and he involuntarily wound his arm around the waist ol 
the yoimg girl, who trembled like a loaf. 

She did not think of Arthur then, or her promise to 
him, for something in Tom’s voice and manner as he 
put his arm about her and called her Maude, brought to 
her a feeling such as she had never experienced before. 
!’‘crhaps Tom suspected that he was understood, for he 
h olvi her closer to him, and passing his hand caressingly 
over her burning cheek, he whispered : 

** Pear Maude, I cannot let you incur any dangai 


IN THE CAVE. 


861 


which I must not share. You understand me, don’t 
you r 

She thought of Arthur then, and the thought cut like 
A knife through her heart. She must not understand 
•.he must not listen to words like these; she must not 
itay there to hear them, and with a quick gestui-e she 
was removing Tom’s arm from her waist, when his wary 
“ Hist’” made her pause and stand where she was, lean- 
ing against him, and heavily, too, as terror overcame 
every other feeling. Footsteps were coming near, and 
coming cautiously, too, up to the very entrance of the 
cave, where they stopped as some one outside seemed to 
be Listening. 

It was a moment of terrible suspense, and Maude could 
hear the throbbing of her heart, while Tom strained her 
BO close to him that his chin rested on her hair, and she 
felt his breath upon her cheek. 

“ Maude, — sister Maude,” came reassuiingly in a low 
whisper, and with a cry Maude burst away from Tom, 
exclaiming : 

“ Charlie, what brings you here ?” 

He explained to her why he was there, and that she 
must stay all night, and with a shudder as she thought 
of what might befaU her uncle, Maude acquiesced in the 
decree, feeling glad that Charlie was with them, a hin- 
drance and preventive to the utterance of words she 
must not hear. A hindrance he was, it is true, but not a 
total preventive, for by and by the tired boy’s eyes be- 
gan to droop as drowsiness stole over him, and when 
Tom made him a bed with Lois’s dress and shawl, and 
r.ado him lie down and sleep, he did so at once, after first 
offering the impromptu couch to Maude. 

Seen by the dim candle-light, Maude’s face was very 
white, and her eyes shone like burning coals as she 

16 


86i 


ROSE MATHER. 


watched CAptair Carleton, and guessed his motive. Had 
there been no Arthur in the way, she would not hava 
shrunk from Captain Carleton ; but with that haunting 
memory she could have shrieked aloud when she saw 
the weary lids droop over Charlie’s eyes, and knew by 
his regular breathing that he was asleep. 

Tom knew it as soon as she did, but for a time he 
kept silence; then he came close to her, and sitting 
down by her side, said, softly: 

“ Maude, you and I have been very strangely thrown 
together, and as I once said to you, there is a meaning 
in it, if we will but find it. Shall I try and solve it for 
you, or do you know yourself what is in my mind ?” 

She did know, but she could not answer; and her face 
drooped over her brother, whose head she had pillowed 
upon her lap. 

“ Perhaps this is not the fitting place for me to speak,” 
Tom continued, “ but if the morning finds me in safety, 
I must be gone, and no one can guess when we may meet 
again. Let me tell you, Maude, of my early life before 
ever I saw or dreamed of you.” 

Surely she might hear this, and the bowed head lifted 
itself a Httle, while Captain Carleton told first of his 
home in Boston, of beautiful little Kose, and saucy, 
dark-eyed Jimmie, and then of the pale, proud Mary, his 
early manhood’s love, who at the last had lost the pride 
and hauteur inherited from her race, and had died so 
gentle and lowly, and gone where her husband one day 
hoped to meet her. Then there came a pause, and Tom 
was thinking of a night when poor Jimmie sat by his 
side before the lonely tent fire, and talked with Lim ol 
Annie Graham. Should he tell Maude of that? Yes, 
he would ; and by the even beating of his heai't, as he 
made that resolve, and thought of Annie, he knew he 


rs THE CAVE. 


86 ? 


had outlived hia fancy for one of whom he spoke unhesi- 
tatingly, praising her girlish beauty, telling how pure and 
good she was, and how once a hope had stirred his heart 
that ho, perhaps, might win her. 

“ But I gave her up to Jimmie. Annie w^ill be my sis 
ter, and I know now why it was so appointed. God had 
in store for me a gem as beautiful as Annie Graham, and 
better adapted to me. I mean you, Maude. God in- 
tends you for my wife. Do you accede willingly ? Have 
you any love for the poor Yankee soldier who has been 
so long dependent upon you ?” 

He had Ler head now on his arm, and with his hand 
was smoothing her bands of satin hair, while he waited for 
her to speak. He had dealt honestly with her. She w^ould 
be equally truthful with him, and she answered at last: 

Oh, Mr. Carleton, you don’t know how much it pains 
me to tell you what I must. I might have loved you 
once, but now it is too late. I in’omised Arthur, if he 
would be kind to the poor prisoners and help the 
escaped ones to get away, and, — oh, I don’t know what, 
but I am to be his wife when the dreadful war is over. 
Pity me, Mr. Carleton, but don’t love me. No, no, don’t 
make me more wretched by telling me of a love I cannot 
return. 

‘‘ Could you return it, Maude, if there were no promise 
to Arthur ?” 

Tom spoke very low, with his lips close to her burning 
cheek, but Maude did not rej)ly, and Tom continued: 

“ Maude, was the getting me here in safety any part c-< 
the price for which you sold yoursell ?” 

She did not answer even then, but by the low, gasp- 
ing sob she gave as she shed back from her hot brow the 
heavy hail Tom knew the truth, and to himself he said, 
“It shall not be” And then from his heart there went 


564 


ROSE MATHER. 


ap a silent prayer that God would give him the brave 
beautiful gM, who drew herself away from him, and 
leaning over her sleejung brother, sat with both hands 
clasped upon her face. They did not talk together much 
tnore, and once Tom thought Maude was asleep, she sat 
ic rigid and motionless, with her face turned toward the 
entrance of the cave. 

But she was not asleep, and her dark eyes were fixed 
wistfully upon the one bright star visible to her, and 
which seemed whispering to her of hope. Perhaps Ar- 
thur would release her from her promise, and perhaps, — 
but Maude started from that thought as from an evil 
jpirit, and her white lips whispered faintly, “ God help 
ne to keep my promise.” 

The night was very still, and as the hours wore on, 
and the faint dawn of day came over the mountain tops, 
Maude’s quick ear caught the echo of the fierce shouts in 
the valley below, and laying Charlie’s head from her lap she 
went out of the cave, followed by Captain Carleton, who 
wondered to see how that one night had changed her. 
The brilliant color was gone from her cheek, which looked 
haggard and pale, as faces look when some great storm 
of sorrow has passed over them. Her hair had fallen 
down and lay in masses U23on her neck, from which she 
shook it off impatiently, and then intently listened to 
the sounds which each moment grew louder. Shoutings 
they were, and tones of command, mingled with the dis- 
tant tramp of horses’ feet, while suddenly, above the tall 
tiee-tops which skirted the mountain side, arose a coil ol 
imoko. Too dark, too thick to have come from any 
ihimney where the early morning fire was kindled, it 
told its own tale of horror, and Maude’s eyes grew sc 
black and fierce that Tom shnmk back from her, aa 


IN THE JAYE. 866 

pointing her finger toward the fast ‘ncreasing rings of 
smoke and flame, she whispered : 

“ Do yon see that, Captain Carleton ? It’s Uncle T anl’e 
dwelling; they have set it on fire. I never thought thoj 
would do that, though I have watched more than on< 
burning house in these mountains, and have almost fell 
a thrill of pride as I thought how dearly we were pay 
ing for our love to the old flag; but when it comes to my 
own home, the pride is aU gone, the fire bums deeper, 
and one is half tempted to question the price required 
for the Union.” 

Tom was about to speak to her, when she turned ab 
ruptly upon him, and said : 

Captain Carleton, do you beheve your Northern wo 
men, — ^your Kose, your Annie would bear and brave whai 
the loyal women of the South endure? They may be 
true to the Union, — no doubt they are, and they think 
they know what war means; but I tell you they do not. 
Did they ever see their friends and neighbors driven to 
the woods and hiUs like hunted beasts, or watch the 
kindling flames devouring their own houses, as I am do- 
ing now ? for I know that is my Uncle Paul’s, and whether 
he still lives, or is hung between the earth and heavens, 
God only knows, and perhaps he has forgotten. I some- 
times think he has, else why does he not send us aid ? 
Where are your hordes of men ? Why do they not come 
to save us, when we have waited so long, and our eyes and 
ears are weak and weary with watching for their coming ?” 

She was talking now more to herself than to her com- 
panion, and she looked a very queen of tragedy, as, with 
her hair floating over her shoulders, and her hand* 
pressed tightly together, she walked hurriedly the length 
and breadth of the long flat rock which bordered a p»e 
dpioe near to the cave 


ROSE MATHER. 


5 ^^ 

Tom was about to answer her, when i ball wont whia 
ting past him, while the loud shouts of the men, whoss 
heads were visible beneath the distant trees, told that 
he had been discovered. 

To return to the cave and take Maude with him, wafl 
the work of a moment, and amid yells cf fury the 
drunken mob came on to where Maude, forgetting every- 
thing now except Tom Carleton, stood waiting for them. 
They would not harm her, she knew, and like a lioness 
guarding its young, she stood within the cave, but so 
near the entrance that her face was visible to the men, 
who at sight of her stopped suddenly, and asked what 
she was doing there, and who she had with her. 

“ My brother Charlie and Captain Carleton, the man 
whom you sought at Uncle Paul’s,” she answered, fear- 
lessly, as she held with a firm grasp the dangerous-look 
ing weapon, which she knew how to use. 

“ And pray, what may you be doing with the Yankee ? 
asked one of the coarser of the men; and Maude replied 

** I am standing between him and just such creatures 
as you are,” 

While Tom, grasping her shoulder, said: 

“Step aside, Maude; I cannot endure this. You, a 
girl, defending me I I must go out. Let me pass.” 

“To certain death? Never I” Maude replied, thrust- 
ing him back with a strength born of desperation. 

Charlie, who had roused from his sleep, and fully com- 
prehended what was going on, caught Tcm around the 
neck, and nearly strangled him, as he said: 

“Let Maude alone. Captain Carleton. They’ll not 
harm her. They would only shoot you down for ...oth- 
lug.” 

Thus hampered and importuned, Tom stood back a 
little, while Maude held a parley with her besieger^ 


nr THE CAVE. 


867 


threatening to shoot the first man who should attempt 
to pass her. She did not think of danger to herself, and 
she stood firmly at her post; while the men consulted 
together as to the best course to be pursued. And while 
they talked, and Maude stood watchful and dauntless 
tile flames of Paul Haverill's house rose higher in the 
heavens, and strange, ominous sounds were heard in the 
distance, — sounds as of many horsemen riding for dear 
life, with shouts and excited voices; and Maude became 
aware of some sudden influence working upon the crowd 
around her. 

Then a band of cavalry dashed into sight, and all was 
wild hurry and consternation. But, above the din of 
the strife without, Tom Carleton caught sounds which 
made his heart leap up, and springing forward past 
Maude De Vere, he exclaimed : 

“Thank God, the Federals have cornel We are 
saved 1 Maude, wo are saved I” 

As his tall form emerged into view, a brutal soldier, 
maddened by the yirprise and unavoidable defeat, level- 
ed his gun fired, recking little whether Tom or 
Maude wao ''.ho victim. The ball cut through the sleeve 
of Maude’s dress, and grazing her arm enough to draw 
olood, lodged harmlessly in the rocks beyond. 

At that sight all Charlie’s fire was roused, and the 
■hot which went whizzing through the air made surer 
work than did the one intended for Tom Carleton. 
Tom was out upon the ledge of rocks by this time, grasp- 
ing the hands of the blue coats, who were a part of a 
company sent out to reconnoiter, and who had reached 
Paul Haverill’s house just after the rebels had left it. 
At first they had tried to extinguish the flames, but find- 
ing that impossible, they had followed the enemy, most 
of whom were made prisoners of war. 


868 


ROSE MATHER. 


Some months before, John Simms had been tranfr 
ferred from the Army of the Potomac to the Army of tb« 
Cumberland, and he it was who led his men to the res 
cue, doing it the more daringly and willingly when hi 
heard who was in danger. He was a captain now, and 
he stood grasping Tom Carleton’s hand, when a piercing 
shriek rose on the air, and turning round, the young 
men saw Maude De Vere bending over the prostrate form 
of a soldier, whose head she gently lifted up, as she 
moaned bitterly: 

** Oh, Arthur, Arthur! how came you heie?** 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

POOR ARTHUR. 

had kept his word, and piloted safely across the 
mountains the prisoner left in Hetty’s cabin. 
His arrival at Paul Haverill’s burning home had 
preceded that of the Federal troops by twenty minutes 
or more, and when he heard of Maude’s danger, he fol- 
lowed our soldiers up the hillside to where Maude held 
the entrance to the cave. He saw her, and tried to make 
nis voice heard, but it was lost amid the strife and noise ol 
the conflict, and she only knew of his presence, when 
Charlie, with chattering teeth, and a face as white aa 
ashes, clutched her dress frantically, and said : 

“Come, sister, come this way to Arthur, — somebody — 
shot him. Do you think he will die ?” 

Quick as lightning the remembrance of the thought, 
which Lad yet scarcely been a thought, of just suoh a 


POOR ARTHUR. 


3(51 

sontingency as this, flashed over Maude, sweeping awaj 
all the pain, the terror, the shrinking she had felt when 
ihe contemplated the fulfillment of her promise to Aj* 
thur Tunbridge. He was lying there at her feet, and 
the grass beneath him was aU a pool of blood, while his 
dim eyes showed that the objects around him were now 
but faintly discerned. He saw Maude, though, and when 
her loud cry met his ear he smiled a glad, grateful smile, 
and said to her, as she knelt beside him and took hia 
head in her lap — 

“ You are sorry, Maude. It was a mistake. You did 
love me some.” 

She pressed her quivering lips to his, and said 
again, 

“ Oh Arthur I Arthur I how came you here ?” 

Arthur knew he was dying, but, shaking off all thought 
of his own pain, he explained to Maude how he came 
there. 

“ The man, —you remember. I got him through, and 
I am not sorry, for he told me of a blind mother and six 
little children dependent upon him away off somewhere 
among the Ohio hills. Think if they had been left with 
out support. I am glad I saved him even if it cost my 
life. And still it is hard to die, Maude, just as you are 
beginning to love me, for you are, and if I had lived you 
would have kept your promise to me. 

“Yes^ Arthur, I would,” and Maude’s white fingers 
threaded the bloody hair and moved softly over the 
ghastly face. “Who did it, Arthur?” she asked, and 
Arthur’s face flushed to a purple hue as with a moan he 
said: 

“ Don’t ask me, — there was a mistaJce, I had taken nc 
part in the fray, except to knock down the ruffian who fired 


570 


ROSE MATHER. 


at you. I was standing right behind him. Yes, theM 
was a mistake. Oh Maude, it loas a mistake.” 

He kept repeating the words, while Maude tried to 
atop the blood flowing so freely from the wound in hit 
temple. The ball had entered there, but had not pene- 
rated to the brain, and he retained his consciousness to 
iie last, smiling once kindly on Charhe, who, half frantic, 
bent over him, and said: 

“Yes, Arthur, it was a mistake, oh Arthur, oh Maude, 
and you two were engaged. I did not know it before.” 

Then a bright flush crept into Maude’s white face, for 
she knew the tall shadow on the grass beside her be- 
longed to Capt. Carleton, and he, she guessed, was 
thinking of last night in the cave. He did think of 
it, but only for a moment, and then his thoughts were 
merged in his great anxiety for Lieutenant Arthur, who 
he saw was dying. Arthur knew he was there, and 
smiled when he asked if he felt much pain. 

“ None with Maude beside ma She was to have been 
my wife, wern’t you, Maude ?” 

“Yes, Arthur. I was to have been your wife.” 

She spoke it openly, frankly, as if by so doing she was 
seeking to atone for an error, and the eyes lifted to Tom’s 
face had in them something defiant, as if she would say 
“ I mean it. I would have been his wife.” 

But she met only pity in Tom’s looks — pity for her, and 
pity for the young man dying among the mountains on 
that soft, summer morning, when the whole world seemed 
BO at variance with a death like that. It was a strange 
scene, and one which those who witnessed it never could 
forget. The broad, level plat on the mountain side, the 
mounted horsemen, the group of prisoners, the beauti- 
ful, queenly girl, whose lap pillowed the head of the dj 
ing soldier, while her brilliant eyes wept floods cJ teart 


POOR ARTHUR. 


37i 


#liich, with quick, nervous movements of her fingers, she 
swept away. Beside her was Charlie, his face whitei 
fclian that of the dying man, and his muscles working 
painfully as if he was forcing back some terrible pang o? 
sry of agony. Tom Carleton, too, and Paul Haverill. 
who had later joined the group and stood looking sadlj 
on, while toward the south the smoke and flame cf his owii 
house was ascending, and in the east the early morning 
was bright and fresh with the summer’s golden sunshine. 
And there on the mountain side they waited and watched, 
while the young lieutenant talked faintly of his distant 
home where the news would carry so much sorrow. 

“ Tell father I died believing in our cause, and were 1 
to live my life over I should join the Southern army ; but 
it’s wrong about the prisoners. We ought not to abuse 
those who fall into our hands. I’ve loved you Maude, 
BO long. Remember me when I am gone, not for any- 
thing brilliant there was about me, but because I loved 
you so well, and died in carrying out the work you gave 
me to do.” 

“Oh, Arthur I Arthur! speak some word of comfort 
to me or I shall surely die. It was a mistake,” Charlie 
whispered, as he crept close to Arthur’s side. 

The dying man’s eyes rested inquiringly for a mo- 
ment in Charlie’s face, then hghted up with a sudden 
joy. 

“ Charlie ! Charlie ! eome close,” he whispered. “ Bend 
your ear to my lips. Maude must not hear me.” 

His head was stiQ lying on Maude’s lap, but he spoke 
30 low to Charlie that she did not hear the question 
asked. She only knew that Charlie started quickly, and 
throwing one arm across her neck as if tc save her froit 
•ome evil, said, promptly, energetically: 

“ No, no, Arthur; no I” 


872 


ROSE MATHER. 


TLen Ihe quivering lips went down again to Aithiir*i 
ear, and Maude caught the word “ mistake,*’ and thai 
was all. She did not know' or think what it reallj 
meant. It was all a mistake, the terrible war which ha^ 
brought her so much pain and suffering. 

“ I die easier now. It was so horrible before Pooi 
Charlie I Don’t let it trouble you. Care for Maude. 
She would have been my wife. Stick to our cause. You 
never forsook it,” came faintly from Arthur, and his eyes, 
when again they rested on Maude’s face, had lost the 
strange, frightened look which she had observed when 
she first came to his side. He was dying very fast, and 
his mind seemed groping for some form of prayer with 
which to meet the last great foe. 

“Pray, somebody,” he moaned, and Paul Haverill, 
who, wholly overcome with all he had passed through 
during the last few hours, had stood dumb and motion- 
less, replied in a choking voice : 

“ I am not a praying man, but God be with you, mj 
boy, and land you safely on t’other side, where there’s no 
more fighting.” 

“ Yes, but that isn’t ‘ Our Father.’ I used to say it at 
home,” came feebly from the white lips, and then Tom 
Carleton knelt beside the youth whose path had crossed 
his own so often and so strangely, and with deep rever- 
ence and earnest entreaty commended the departing spirit 
to the God who deals more gently, and mercifully, anc 
lovingly with his childi'en than they dealt writh each othei 

Tom thought of Isaac Simms, and the noisome, filthy 
room in Libby where he had first learned to pray, 
and the thought gave fervor to his prayer, to which 
Arthur listened intently, his lips motioning the amen 
he could not speak, for he had no power of utter* 
anoe. Once again they moved with a pleading kind of 


THE DEAD AND THE LIYINQ. 


373 


motion, and Maude stooped over to kiss them, her long 
hair falling across the pallid brow, where the blood staini 
ffere, and when .she lifted her head up, and pushed back 
her heavy locks, there was the seal of death on Arthxirl 


^aoa 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE DEAD AND THE LIVIHO. 


F all Paul Haverill’s comfortable buildings, house, 



stables, barn and negro quarters, there was left 


him only one cabin which the fire had not con- 
sumed. That stood a little distant from the rest, and 
had been occupied by Lois before her husband died. It 
was superior to the other cabins then ; it was neat and 
tidy now, and there they laid the dead lieutenant, in his 
grey uniform, with a httle flag of stars and bars across 
his breast. This was Charlie’s thought, and it was very 
m('te that he who to the last had beUeved in the righte- 
ousness of the Confederacy should have her sign above 
him. There was no other spot except the cabin where 
Maude could stay, and the entire day and night she sat 
by her dead Arthur, whom, now that he was dead, she 
cherish^Kl in her heart as a martyr and a hero, questioning 
even the ground on which she had hitherto stood so 
Irmly, and asking herself if, after all, the South was so 
rery far out of the way, or if the Union were worth the 
tearful price the Southern people were paying for it. 
Maude did not know herself in this mood. It was sc 
unlike all her former theories, and more than once ski 


874 


ROSE MATHER. 


presised lier hot hands to her sti’i hotter head, and aisked 
if she was going mad. 

Crouched beside Maude, with his blue eyes fixed upon 
hor with a pitying, remorseful look, was Charlie. 

“ Poor Maude, — poor sister I I am so sorry. I nevei 
thought, — I did not know; you used to laugh about hire 
•o to Uncle Paul. I’d give my life to bring him back 
for you. Did you love him so very much ?” Charlie said, 
in broken sentences, and then Maude shivered from head 
to foot, but made him no reply. 

She had not loved him so very much, but his violent 
death and all the horrors attending it had shaken her 
terribly, and could he have come back to life she would 
have tried to love him, and with her iron will would 
have crushed that other love, the very knowledge ol 
which had made her heart throb with so much joy. 

But the dead come not to life again, and the next 
morning they biuied Arthur Tunbridge in the grassy 
enclosure where Paul Haverill’s wife was sleeping with 
the infant son who, had he Lived, would have been just 
Arthur’s age. The blue coated soldiery, who had been 
his deadly foes, paid him every military honor possible 
within thfir means, even marching to his grave behind 
the stars and bars which lay upon his coffin ; but when 
they came back from the burial, they bore the national 
flag, whose folds that peacefid summer night floated in 
the breeze from the tojD of Lois’s cabin. 

Very kind, and gentle, and pitiful was Tom’s de 
aae.inor toward Maude. During the day and the night, 
^hen she had sat by Arthur in Lois’s cabin, he had not 
been near her; but, after all was over, he went to her, 
tnd, with the authority cf a friend and brother, insisted 
that she should take the rest she needed so much. And 
Maude gave way at the sound of his soothing, qoieting 


THE DEAD AND THE LIVINQ. 


876 


▼oice, and, with a flood of tears, did what he bade het 
do. And then Tom sat by her, and bathed her throb- 
bing head, and smoothed her beautiful hair, and paid 
back in part the services she had rendered him when ha 
lay sick in Squire Tunbridge’s house. 

Maude was not ill, — only exhausted, — both physically 
and mentally the exhaustion showing itself in tlie quiet, 
listless state into which she lapsed, paying but httle 
attention to what was passing around her, and offering 
no suggestion or remonstrance when told of her uncle’s 
plan to accompany Captain Simms and his men to Knox- 
ville. 

Over Paul Haverill, too, a change had passed The 
attack upon him by his old friends and neighbors, though 
long expected, had been sudden and terrible when it 
came, and as he watched the burning of the house which 
had been his so long, he felt that every tie which bound 
him to the old place was severed. Then came swiftly 
the fearful tragedy of the mountains, when Arthur was 
brought to him dead. Stunned and bewildered by the 
startling events which had followed each other so rapidly, 
Paul was hardly able to counsel for himself, and as- 
sented readily to the plan which had really originated 
mth Captain Carleton, who had another scheme under- 
lying that, but who suggested both so skillfully that Paul 
Uaverill fancied they were his own ideas, and gave them 
%s such to Maude. They would go to Knoxville with the 
wldiers, he said ; thence to Nashville. They had some 
relatives living there, and, after resting for a Httle, they 
would continue their joumeyings North, going, perhaps, 
fts far as New York. 

“I always wanted to travel North,” he said, ‘*bul 
my affairs kept me at home. Now I have no affairSi 
Mj neighbors have reheved me of such commoditiea^ 


876 


ROSE MATHEK. 


and I want to get away from a spot where I have wit 
nessed such dreadful things. We all need change 
You, Maude, more than I, and Charhe more than either 
I don’t know what has come over the boy. That hcrri 
ble night and morning were too much for him.” 

Maude knew that so far as Charlie was concerned, 
her uncle had spoken truly. Charlie was greatly 
changed, and his eyes had in them a scared look, as il 
every detail of the horrors of the fight on the mountain 
had stamped itself indehbly upon his mind, and was 
never for an instant forgotten. 

He needed a change of place and scene; and as she 
could not return to Arthur’s desolate home, whither the 
sad news had been sent at once, Maude assented to the 
Nashville arrangement, and in three weeks was com- 
fortably settled at a Nashville hotel, with Lois as her 
attendant. Her uncle, Charlie, and Captain Carleton 
were with her, the latter constantly putting off his 
journey to Rockland, where they were so anxiously wait^ 
ing for him. He had written to Rose immediately after 
his arrival at Nashville, telling her of all that had tran- 
spired, and speaking of Maude De Vere as one whom ho 
hoped to make his wife. This time the letter went safe- 
ly, and Rose rephed at once, urging Tom to come, and 
insisting that Mr. Haverill, Maude and Charlie should 
accompany him. 

“ They saved Will’s life as well as yours,” Rose wrote. 
“ I have a right to them all, and especially to the noble 
Maude. Bring her to me, Tom, and let me coax back 
the color to her dear face and the brightness to her eyes 
I shall come myself and get her if she refuses.” 

Maude had never known the companionship of a sister, 
— had never had a single intimate girl friend except 


TECE DEAD AND THE LTVING. 


37\ 


Nettie Timbridge, who died. Independent, strong willed 
and self-reliant, she had cai-ed but little for any society 
except that which she found with nature in the wild 
mountains of Tennessee; but now, broken and shocked, 
tnd sliom of some of her strength, she longed for sym- 
pathy and companionship, and something in Rose 
Mather’s sprightly letter made her heart yearn towara 
the little lady who had written it, and the pleasant 
home which Rose described as beautiful with the sum- 
mer bloom. 

“ I will thi^ about it by and by,” she said to her 
uncle ; “but for the present it is nice to rest here in 
NashviUe.” 

So for a time longer they lingered in Tennessee, while 
Rose waited impatiently for them and fretted at the df^ 
lay 


CHAPTER XXXVL 


ANDERSONVILLE PRIS0NEE8. 

A WlfWHIS seems to be one of the worst cases we have 
had. I doubt if his mind will survive the 
horrors he has endured, even if his body 
Poor fellow I his mother would not recognize him 

now 

This was what the physician at Annapolis said to Mrs. 
Simms of a miserable, emaciated skeleton, which had 
©orae up from A ndersonville with the last arrival of pris- 
cmors 


378 


ROSE MATHER 


While we in the mountains of Teimessee were traoin^ 
the wanderings of Will Mather and Captain Carleton^ 
Mrs. Simms and Annie had stood untiringly at theii 
posts beside the sick and dying soldiers who had learned 
to bless and watch for the stem widow, and to love and 
worship the beautiful Annie Graham. And well had 
she earned such appreciation, for she had been most 
faithful to the wretched ones committed to her card, — 
faithful both to body and soul, and in the better world 
she knew there was waiting to welcome her more than 
one, whose darkened mind she had led to the fountain 
of aU light. And Annie had made a vow to stay till 
from that foul Southern prison, where 28,000 men had 
died, there came to her the one for whom she always 
looked so anxiously when new arrivals came, her blue 
eyes mnning rapidly over each wasted form, and then 
filling with tears when the scrutiny was found to be in 
vain. 

James Carleton had never been heard from since that 
letter sent to her so long ago, and hope had died out of 
Annie’s heart, when at last, with Widow Simms, she 
stood by the cot where lay the insensible form of which 
the physician had spoken so diflcouragingly. 

It was the figure of a young man, who must once have 
been finely formed, with handsome face and hair and 
eyes. The latter were closed now, and only the hds 
moved with a convulsive motion, as Annie bent over 
him. The dark hair, matted and coarse and filthy, had 
curled in rings about the bony forehead, but had been 
cut away when the bath >vas given, and the closely 
jhorn head was like many other heads which Annie 
Graham’s hands had touched, gently, tenderly, as they 
tow moved over this one, trying to infuse some life into 
Che breathing skeleton. He was to be her charge, — ^hi 


ANDERSONYILLE PRISONKRa 


87f 


WM in her division and Mrs. Simms* keen grey eyes 
scanned Annie curiously as she bent over the poor fel 
low. 

He was helpless as an infant, and Annie nursed hinc 
much as she would have nursed a baby whose life bung 
on a thread. He had been there four days, and only a 
faint, moaning sound had given token of life or conscious- 
ness. But at the close of the fourth day, as Annie sat 
chafing the pulseless fingers where the gi*ey skin himg so 
loosely, the eyes opened for a moment and were fixed 
upon her face. There was no consciousness in them, — 
no recognition of her presence, nothing but the strained, 
hungry, despairing look Annie had seen in the eyes of 
somany of our prisoners, and which to a greater or 
less degree was peculiar to them alh Annie saw this 
*ook, and then underneath it aU she saw something 
more , — what it was she could not tell, but it brought 
back to her those moonlight nights upon the beach at 
New London, and that other night of more recent date, 
when she sat with Jimmie Carleton beneath the Rock- 
land sky and heard his passionate words of love, and 
saw his soft, black eyes kindle with earnestness and then 
grow sad and sorrowful with disappointment. There 
was no kindling in them now, — no ardent passion or heat 
of love, — but a certain softness and brightness, and even 
Bauciness, hngered still and told Annie at last who it was. 

“Oh, merciful Father I it is Jimmie T she said, and un- 
mindful of any who might be looking on, she bent down 
Bnd kissed the sunken cheeks from which the flesh waa 
gone. 

She had expected him so long, and grown so weary 
and hopeless with expectations unfulfilled, that she could 
scarcely beheve it now, or reahze that the half dead 
wretch before her was once the lively, humorous, teasing 


580 


ROSE MOTHER. 


Jimmie Carleton. How she pitied him, and how hei 
heart throbbed as she thought of the suffering he must 
have endured ere he reached this state of apparent iinbe 
cility. Tlien, as she remembered what the physiciai 
said about his mind, she dropped upon her tmees, and 
clasping her hands over her face, prayed earnestly thai 
God would remove the darkness and wholly restore the 
man whom she loved so dearly. 

** Do you think he will die ?” she asked Mrs. Simms, 
who had come for a moment to her side. 

“ You know him, then. I was wondering that an old 
woman like me should see clearer than you. I mistrust 
ed from the first,” Mrs. Simms answered, and then to 
Annie’s eager questioning she replied, “ It will be almost 
a miracle if we do get any sense into that brain, or flesh 
upon these bones, but we’ll do the best we can.” 

Her words were not very encouraging, and Ajinie’ft 
tears fell like rain upon the face of the man who gave no 
sign that he knew where he was, or who was bending 
over him. Oh! how he had longed for the air of the 
North, as his face daily grew thinner, greyer, and more 
corpse-like, while his flesh seemed shrivelling and drying 
on his bones. Bill Baker had done what he could to 
ameliorate his condition, — done too much in fact, and as 
the result he suddenly found himself shorn of his privi- 
leges, and an inmate again of the dreadful prison. Even 
then he clung to and cared for Jimmie, until the pang^ 
of starvation and the pains of sickness made him forgot 
?ul of aU but himself. And there they pined and wept 
and waited until the day of their release, when Bill wai 
too ni to be removed, and was left in charge of a humane 
family, who kindly promised to care for him until he was 
better. From a Eockland soldier who had been taken 
prisoner at the battle of the WUderneBs, Jimmie had 


THE AKDERSONVILLE PltlSONER& 


S81 


beard that Mrs. Graham was at Annapolis, and then I oh, 
how he longed for the time when it might be his fate to be 
tended and nursed by her. She would do it so gently, and 
*o kindly and in his dreams the walls of his pestilential 
prison stretched away to the green fields of the North, 
where he walked again with Amnie, and felt the clasp of her 
little hand, and the light of her blue eyes. She was al- 
ways present with him, — she or the little Lulu, of Pequot 
memory. Somehow these two were strangely mixed, and 
when his mind began to totter as the physical strain on it 
became too great, the two faces were united in one body, 
and both bent lovingly over him, just as Annie Graham 
was doing now when he was past knowing or caring who 
ministered to him. A vague suspicion he had at inter- 
Tals that in some respects there was a change, that his 
bed was not the filthy sand bank, nor his covering the 
pitiless sky. Gradually, too, there came a different look 
upon his face; the color was changing from the dingy 
gray, to a more life-like hue; flesh was showing a Little 
beneath the skin, and the dark hair began to grow, and 
Annie watered the tiny curls with bitter tears, for, as 
proof of the terrible life whose horrors wiU never half be 
written, the once black hair was coming out streaked with 
grey. They knew in Rockland that he was at Annapolis, 
but Annie had peremptorily forbidden either Mrs. Carle- 
ton or Rose to come. “ They could do no good,” she 
wrote. “ Jimmie would not know them ; and they 
might be in the way.” 

They were constantly expecting Tom from Tennessee, 
with Maude De Vere and her friends, and so they re- 
mained at home the more willingly, enjoining it upon 
Annie lo write them every day just a line to tell how 
Jimmi) waa 


582 


ROSE MATHER. 


The summer rain was falling softly upon the streets ol 
AjinapoUs, and the cool evening air came stealing into 
the room, where Annie Graham sat by her patient 
There w^ere not so many now in her ward, and she bad 
more time for Jimmie, by whose bedside every leisure 
moment was passed She was sitting by him now, watch 
ing him as he slept, and listening breathlessly to his lon 
murmurings as he seemed to be talking of her and the 
dreadful prison-life. Then he slept more soundly, and 
she arranged the light so that it left Lis face in shadow, 
but fell full upon her own. 

Half an hour passed in this way, and Annie’s head was 
beginning to droop from languor and drowsiness, when 
a sudden exclamation startled her, and she looked up to 
see her patient’s eyes fixed upon her, while with his fin- 
ger he pointed to the window opposite, and whispered, 

‘‘ The star, it’s risen again, when I thought it had set 
forever. I take it as a good omen, BiU. I shall see her 
face again.” 

Did he think himself in prison still, with that stai 
shining over him, and did he take her for Bill Baker ? 
The thought was not a very complimentary one, but An- 
nie forgot everything in her joy, at this evidence of re 
turning reason. 

“Jimmie,” she said softly, and she bent her face so 
close to his, that her lips touched his forehead, “ Jimmie, 
don’t you know that you are in Annapolis, with me, with 
Annie Graham. You remember Annie ?” 

She had many a time said these very words in his ear, 
hoping somehow to impress them upon hiiji^ and now 
she had succeeded, for he repeated them after her slowly 
and with long pauses, Like a school-boy trying to saj a 
half-learned lesson. 

“ Jimmie— don’t you — know — ^ihat you — are here- in 


THE ANDEBSONTELLE PRISONERS. 


888 


—Annapolis — with me — with- -Annie — Graham — You re- 
member — Annie ?” 

And as he said them consciousness began to struggle 
back, — the black eyes fastened themselves upon Annif 
with a wistful look ; then they took in her drese* her 
hands folded in her lap, the decent covering on the bed. 
ihe furniture of the room, and then throwing up his anna 
he felt of his flesh, and examined his linen, and patted 
the piUow, while still the look of wonder and perplexity 
deepened on his face. Suddenly he let his arms drop 
helplessly, then stretched them feebly towards Annie, and 
while both chin and lip quivered touchingly, and the 
tears streamed from his eyes, he whispered, 

“Clean face, clean hands, soft pillow and bed, with 
the hunger, and thirst, and home-sickness gone. This 
is — ^yes, this must be God’s land, and she is there with 
me.” 

He fainted then. The shock of coming back to “God’s 
land ” had been too great, and for a week or more he 
paid but little heed to what was passing around him. 

“ Don’t you know me, Jimmie ? It’s I, — it’s Annie,” 
Mrs. Graham would say to him, as his restless eyes turn- 
ed upon her, and he would repeat after her, 

“ Don’t you — know — me, Jimmie ? It’s I, — it’s Annie.” 

This was a peculiarity of his, and it continued until 
Bill Baker, who had become strong enough to be moved, 
came to Annapolis, and asked to see the “ Cop’ral.” 

At first the physician refused, but Annie approved the 
plan, hoping for a good result, and she waited anxiously 
while Bill said cheerily, 

“ HaUo, old Cop’raL Rather nicer quarters here than 
hat sand-bank down by that infernal nasty stream.” 

Bill Baker’s voice was the last which in the fax-ofi 
pi Ison had sounded kindly in Jimmie’s ears, and new M 


884 


ROSE MATHER. 


he beard it again his face lighted up, and his eyes kis 
died with something like their olden fire. 

“You know me, Cop’ral. I’m Bill. We’ve been ei 
nhanged. We’re up to Annapolis, and Miss Graam it 
anssin* you,” Bill continued, and then Jimmie drew a 
<ung breath, and burst into a passionate fit of tears 
* They’ll do him good They alius did to Andersonville 
He’d hold in till he was fit to burst, and then he’d let 
*em slide, and feel better. He’ll know you. Miss Graam, 
after this.” 

Annie was called away just then, to attend to anothei 
patient, and Bill was left alone with Jimmie. There 
were a few broken sentences from the latter, and then 
Bill Baker was heard talking rapidly, but very gently 
and cautiously, and Jimmie lifted his head once and 
looked across the room where Annie was. 

“Better leave him alone a spell, till he thinks it out, 
and gets it arranged,” Bill said to Annie. “ I made him 
understand where he was, and that you was here, and aU 
right on the main question; and though he’d like to have 
bust his biler for a minute, he’ll come all straight, I 
reckon.” 

It was more than an hour before Annie went to Jim- 
mie again, but when she did, the eager, joyful look in 
his eyes told her that she was recognized. 

“ Don’t speak to me, — don’t talk,” she said, laying one 
hand lightly upon the lips, which began to move, while 
with the other she smoothed the short curls of hair. 

He kissed the hand upon his lips, and whispered, 
through the fingers: 

“ Tell me first, was it true, he told me ? Do you ” 

He did not finish the sentence, for Annie understood 
him, and bending so near to him that no one else could 
near, she said: 


THE ANDERSONVILLE PRISONERa 


885 


“Yes, Jimmie, — I do.” 

He seemed satisfied, and something of his old mannei 
came back to him when, later in the day, Annie tried to 
straighten the clothes about him, and wet and brushed 
his hair. 

“ I iook like a hippcrpotamus, don’t I ?” he asked, touch- 
ing his thick-skinned face . 

“Not half as much as you did,” Annie replied; and 
the first smile her face had worn for weeks ghmmered 
arourd her lips, for she knew now the danger was past, 
and Jimmie Carleton would live. 


CHAPTEK XXXm 



IN ROCKLAND. 

I HE warm, bright November day was wearing to 
its close. The purple haze of the Indian sum- 
mer lay around the hilltops, and the soft, golden 
sunl’ght feu softly upon the grass, and the few autum- 
nal fiowers which had escaped the recent storm. The 
grounds around the Mather mansion were looking almost 
as beautiful as in the early summer, for the grass, in- 
vigorated by the rain, was fresh and green again, and 
the brUliant foliage of the trees which dotted the lawn 
made up for the loss of the flowers. Even these last 
were not lacking indoors, for the hot-house had been 
robbed of its costliest flowers, which fiUed the whole 
house with perfume, and made Maude De Vere star*" 
with surprise when she first entered the parlors. 


886 


ROSE MATHER. 


It takes me back to my Soutbem home,” she said to 
Rose, who, standing on tiptoe, fastened a half-open lily 
in her hair, going into ecstasies over the effect, and 
thinking to herself that Maude De Vere was the mosi 
regal creaturie shp had ever seen. 

J)daud^ had been in Rockland three weeks, and Rose 
was already as much in love with her as if she had know n 
her all her life. At first, she had dreaded a httle to meet 
the fearless heroine of the mountains. A girl who had 
held a revolver at the heads of both Federal and Confed- 
erate ; who, in the night, had ridden twenty miles on 
horseback to conduct a party of refugees to a place of 
safety, sind had guarded the entrance of the cave in the 
face of a furious mob, must be something very formida- 
ble, or, at least, something unlike all Rose’s ideas of w hat 
a lady gently born should be ; and both Rose and her 
mother had waited nervously for the arrival of one who, 
they felt sure, was to be the wife of Tom. Nothing de- 
finite had been said upon the subject since Arthur died, 
but it was tacitly understood by all parties that Maude 
De Vere was, sometime, to be Maude Carle ton ; and 
Tom was allowed to pay her attentions which could only 
De paid to his fiancee. 

In a great flutter of spirits. Rose had heard of Maude’s 
arrival at the Monteur House, and immediately after din- 
ner had driven down to see her, accompanied by Will, 
who, if possible, was more anxious than herself to pay 
his respects to Maude. 

She was kneehng by Charhe’s couch when the party 
entered, but she rose at once and came forward, with the 
most beautiful carnation staining her cheeks, and a look 
?f modesty in her brilliant eyes. She wore a long, 
trailing dress of heavy silk, and stood so erect, and held 
her head so high, that she seemed taUer than she really 


IN ROCKLAND. 


887 


— taller than Tom, Rose feared; but as he stepped 
' up > her, she saw he had the advantage of her by at leas! 
for inches, and thus reassured, she drew a long breath 
of /■elief; then, as thoughts of all her husband and brothel 
had been saved from by this heroic girl , came over her, 
she sprang toward Maude, and winding her ai«' ^ arou~'.d 
her neck, sobbed hysterically, but never spoke one word. 

What is it ? What are you crying for ?” Maude 
asked, petting her as if she had been a little child. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. The sight of you who have done 
BO much for the war, and been so brave, makes me seem 
so little, so small, so mean beside you, Maude De Vere,” 
Rose rephed, brokenly, and then Maude’s eyes fiUed with 
tears, and she hugged the sobbing little creature, whom, 
from that moment, she loved so fondly. 

She, too, had dreaded this meeting, for she knew that 
Rose Mather and her mother were both women of the 
highest culture, and she felt that they might criticise, 
and perhaps condemn one who had lived so long among 
the pines of North Carolina and the mountains of Ten- 
nessee. But Rose’s manner divested her of all fear, 
and in a moment she resumed that unconscious air of 
superiority to all else around her, which was a part of 
herself. Queenly was the word which best suited her 
I looks and her manners, and Rose i^aid homage to her as 
to a queen, and told her that she loved her, and how 
much she had thought of her, and how anxious her 
mother was to see her, and how happy they would aU be 
when Jimmie and Annie came home. 

There had been daily visits to the Monteur since then, 

I And Mrs. Carleton had met the beautiful Maude, ar.d 
mentally approved of Tom’s choice. 

Charlie too had been petted and caressed, and his bluf 
eyes opene»i with wonder as he saw what Northern wa 


BOSE MATHER. 


men were like, and remembered liis prejudice against 
them. He liked the Northerners, he said, but he waa 
loyal to the Southern cause, and listened, with flashing 
9yeB and crimson cheeks, to all he continually heai*d ol 
die sure defeat and disgrace of the Confederacy. 

Matters were in this wise when the day came on which 
iimie was expected home with Jimmie. Great prepara- 
tions had been made for that arrival In Kockland 
there was more than one prisoner who had been nursed 
by Annie Graham, and her name was spoken with rever- 
ence and love by the veriest vagabond that walked the 
streets. They had not made a demonstration in a long, 
long time, but they were going to make one now, and the 
honors which poor George saw in fancy awarded to him- 
self were to be given to his wife. Jimmie, too, whose 
terrible sufferings had excited so much commiseration, 
was to have his share of consideration. Bill Baker, who 
had been home for a week, and was as usual the most 
active spii'it of all, suggested that when they flung out 
the banner on which was inscribed, “ Honor and welcome 
to Annie Graham,” they should give three cheers for Mr. 
Carleton too. “ Bein’,” as he said, “ that they are about 
as good as one.” 

Prompt to the moment when it was due, the train 
Bw^ept round the Bockland curve and stopped at the 
depot where a large concourse of people was gathered. 
They had not expected the Widow Simms, and when her 
green veil and straw bonnet appeared on the platform, 
the foremost of the group looked a little disappointed, 
irhile the widow’s face darkened as she saw the waiting 
multitude, and guessed why they were there. 

Annie had appeared by this time, and at sight of hei 
the tongues were loosened, and deafening shouts of wel- 
come greeted her on every side. The flag bearing hei 


IN ROCKLANB. 


889 


name was held aloft, the cannon in he adjoining field 
sent forth its bellowing roar, and the band struck up the 
sweet refrain of “Annie Laurie;” while the voices of the 
Andersonville prisoners, who had been Annie’s cbaig«, 
sang the last line: 

“ And for bonnie Annie Qraham I would lay me down and die.** 

Surely this was a coming home which Annie had ne^ei 
looked for, and with her face flushed with excitement, 
and her eyes shining with tears, she stood in the midst 
of the shouting throng, gazing wonderingly from one to 
the other, and realizing nothing clearly, except the firm 
clasp upon her arm. 

It was Jimmie’s hand, and Jimmie himself leaned upen 
her, as the crowd coupled his name with hers, and hur- 
rahed for “ James Carleton and Annie Graham.” 

“ And the Widder Simms, — I swan if it’s fair to leave 
her out. She did some tall nussin’ down to Annapohs,” 
Bill Baker said; and then the widow was cheered, and 
she acknowledged the compHment with a grim smile, 
and wondered when “ folks would quit making fools of 
themselves, and if Susan wasn’t up there, somewhere, in 
the jam. Of course she was; ’twas like them Kuggleses 
to go where the doins was.” 

And while she shook the hand of her neighbors, she 
kept her eyes on the watch for Susan, and felt a httle 
chagrined that she did not find her. 

Susan was at home in the neat htlle house which John 
had bought with his captain’s wages, so carefully saved. 
The same house it was at which Annie Graham had 
looked with longing eyes, in the commencement of the 
war; and in the pleasant chamber which overlooked the 
town there was a little hoy who had been in EockJand onlj 
a week, and whose existence was as yet unknown to the 


890 


ROSE MATHER. 


widow. They had pmT;)osely kept it from her, so sbi 
had no suspicion that he was expected; and the firs! 
genuine feeling of happiness she had known since Isaac 
died^ she experienced when she was ushered into Susan e 
room, and the little red-faced thing was laid in her lap 
She had looked askance at the new house, and neat furni 
tnre, and the pretty curtains, as so many proofs of “ them 
Ruggleses” extravagance; but she was not proof against 
the white face which, from the pillows, smiled so kindly 
upon her, and called her mother. And she was guilty ol 
kissing her daughter-in-law, even before she saw the baby, 
her first grandchild, whom Susan called Iscuw, although 
she hated the name, and had tacked on to it Adolphus^ 
with the hope that the future would adjust the name 
into Adolphj or something more fanciful than the good, 
plain Bible Isaac. And while the widow kissed and 
wept over her grandson, and felt herself growing young, 
and soft, and gentle again, the crowd around the depot 
bad dispersed, a part going to their own homes, and a 
part following the soldiers and band which escorted 
Annie Graham and Jimmie Carleton to the Mather 
mansion, where everything had been made so beautiful 
for them. 

It was a. pleasant coming home, and a most ample 
compensation for aU the weariness and privation which 
Annie, as hospital nurse, had endured, and she felt that 
far more was awarded to her than she deserved. 

“Mr. Carleton was the one to be honored,” she sai.l. 
tnd her soft, blue eyes rested upon the pale, tired man, 
who, exhausted with his joui-ney and the excitement, laj 
Idwu at once upon the sofa, while his mother and Rose 
l:nelt beside him and kissed, and pitied, and cried ovei 
bis poor white face, and long, bony hands, which werf 
almost transparent in their whitenesa 


IN ROCKLAND. 391 

Maude was not one of the party at the Mathei man- 
<ion that night. 

“You ought to be alone the first night,” she said, 
j^hen Rose insisted that she should join them. “To- 
jnorrow I will come round and caU on Mrs. Graham and 
four brother.” 

She had been greatly interested in all the arrange* 
meats, and was curious to see the woman who had almost 
been her rival, while Annie was quite as curious to see 
her, the heroine of the mountains. In her letters to 
Annie, Rose had purposely refrained from mentioning 
Tom’s name with Maude’s, so that Annie was ignorant 
of the real state of things. But she did not remain so 
long. 

“Is she so very beautiful?” she said to Rose, when, 
after supper, they were aU assembled in the parlor, and 
Maude was the subject of conversation. 

'*■ Ask Tom; he can teU you,” Rose replied, and by the 
conscious look on Tom’s face, Annie guessed the truth at 
once. 

That night, when the two brothers were alone in their 
room, Tom said to Jimmie: 

“ Well, my boy, I’ve kept my word, — I’ve waited a 
year and more. I’ve given you every chance a reason- 
able man could ask. Have you made a proper use of 
your privileges? Would it do me any good to try and 
win Annie now ?” 

“ You can try if you like,” Jimmie said, with a smile. 
And then Tom told him of his hopes concerning Maud* 
De Vere, and Jimmie said to him saucily: 

“Don't you remember I told you once you had ha. 
your day ? But some lucky dogs have two, and yoa, 
iH^ms . are one of them.” 


m 


EOSE MATHTCE. 


CHAPTER xxxvm 



THE LOVERS. 

(he next day brought Maude De Vere, looking ac 
handsome in her black dress, with her coquot- 
f tish drab hat and long drab feather tipped with 
scarlet, that she reminded Annie of some bright tropical 
flower as she came into the room with the sj)arkle in hei 
brilhant eyes, and the deep, rich bloom upon her cheek. 
She had regained her health and spirits rapidly within the 
last few weeks, and even Jimmie, who seldom saw beyond 
Annie’s fair face and soft blue eyes, drew a breath of won- 
der at the queenly girl who completely overshadowed those 
around her so far as size and form and physical develop- 
ment were concerned. But nothing could detract from 
the calm, quiet dignity of Annie’s manner, or from the 
pure, angelic beauty of her face, and as the two stood hold- 
ing each othej-’s hands and looking into each other’s eyes, 
they made a most striking tableau, and Mrs. Carleton 
thought, with a thi’iU «»f pride, how well her sons had 
chosen. 

That night, as Maude was walking back to the hotel 
accompanied by Tom, he asked her again the questict 
put in the cave of the Cumberland. 

“I understand about Arthur,” he said; ‘‘but he is 
dead; there is no promise now in the way. I claim you 
for my own. Am I wrong in doing so ?” 

That Maude’s reply was wholly satisfactory was proved 
by the expression of Tom Caiieton’s face when at last he 
stopped at the door of the hptel, and by tl^e kiss whick 


THE LOVERa 393 

bani( d on Maude’s lips long after lie had disappeared 
down the street. 

The next afternoon, while Tom was with Maude, and 
both Mrs. Carleton and Kose were out on a shopping 
expedition, Annie sat alone with Jimmie in the pleasant 
little room which had been given to him as a place where 
he would be more quiet than in the parlor. Annie had 
been playing with Rose’s boy, — ^the Httle Jimmie, a hand- 
some, sturdy fellow of nearly a year old, whom the en- 
tire household spoiled. He was already beginning to 
talk, and having taken a fancy to Annie, he tried to call 
her name, and made out of it a tolerably distinct “ Auntee,” 
which brought a blush to Annie’s face, and a teasing 
smile to Jimmie’s. 

“ Come, sit by me a moment, Annie,” Jimmie said, 
when the child had been taken out by his nurse. “ Sit 
on this stool, so, — a little nearer to me, — there, that’s 
right,” he continued, in the tone of authority he had un- 
consciously acquired since his convalescence. 

He was lying upon the couch, and Annie was sitting at 
his side and so near to him that his long fingers could 
smooth and caress her shining hair, while his saucy eyes 
feasted themselves upon her face, as he asked “ when she 
would really be the auntie of the httle boy who called 
her now by that name.” 

“ Not till you are able to stand alone,” was Annie’s re- 
ply, and then, for the first time since his return from An- 
lersonville, Jimmie spoke of that episode in his hfe at 
New London, when little Lulu Howard had stirred hii 
boyish blood, and filled his boyish fancy. 

“Perhaps he wanted to tease Annie, for he said to her; 

“I did like that httle blue-eyed Lu,— thats a fact 
I used to think about her all day, and dre im about hej 
aU night. I wonder where she is now.” 


m 


BOSE MATHER 


“ What would you do if you knew ?’* Lnnie asked, and 
Jimmie replied: 

“ I believe I would go miles to see her, ‘ust to kno\f 
what kind of a woman she has developed into. I trust 
fhe is not like her aunt. I could not endure her. She 
ttruck me as a hard, selfish, ambitious woman, terribly 
fcfraid lest the world generally should not think Mrs 
IScott Belknap all which Mrs. Scott Belknap thought her* 
self to be.” 

Annie’s cheeks were very red by this time, and imput- 
ing her heightened color to a cause widely different from 
the real one, Jimmie drew her face down to his, and kiss- 
ing the burning cheeks, said: 

“ Of course I should take you with me, when I went 
after little Lu.” 

“ You would hardly find her if you did not,” Annie 
said, wlfile Jimmie looked inquiringly at her. 

Annie had only been waiting for Jimmie to speak of 
the httle Pequot, before making her own confession, and 
she now said to him abruptly : 

“ Did Lulu look any like me ?” 

“Why, yes. I’ve always thought so, only she was 
younger, and had short hair, you know, and short 
dresses, too. Annie, Annie, tell me, — was she, — do you, 
— are you ” — Jimmie began, raising himself upright upon 
the couch, as something in Annie’s expression began to 
puzzle and mystify him. 

“ Am I what ?” Annie asked. “ Am I little Lulu of 
the Pequot House ? My name was Annie Louise Hoioard 
before I married George. My aunt called me Louise. 
You never inquired my maiden name, I believe. I sup- 
pc*se you thought I had always been a married woman, 
but J was a girl of fourteen jnce, and went With my 
Aunt Belknap to New London, and met a boy who called 


THE LOVERS* 


m 


himseli Di Jc Lee, and who was so kind to the orphan girl, 
that she began to think of him all day, and watch for his 
coming after his school hours. He was a saucy, teasing 
boy, but Lulu liked him, and when one day she waited 
for his promised coming till it grew dark upon the 
beach, and the great hotel was hghted up for the evening 
festivity, and when other days and nights passed, and he 
neither came nor sent her any word, and she heard at 
last from one of his comrades that he had gone home to 
Boston, — I say, when all this came about she began to 
think that she had loved the boy who deceived her so, for 
he did deceive her in more points than one, as she after- 
ward learned. His name was not Dick Lee ” 

“ But, Annie,” Jimmie began, and Annie stoj)ped him, 
laying: 

“ Wait, Jimmie, till I am through. This is my horn 
now. I have delayed telling you all this, for various 
reasons. Your mother knew who I was before I went 
to Washington, and she excused you as far as was possi- 
ble. That I have promised to be your wife is proof that 
I have forgiven the pangs of disappointment I endured ; 
for, Jimmie, I did suffer for a time. There was so httle 
in the world to make me happy, and you had been so 
kind, that I fully believed in and trusted you; and when 
f found I was deceived, my heai*t ached as hard, perhaps, 
as the heart of a girl of fourteen can ache from such a 
cause.” 

“Poor Annie! poor little Lulu!” Jimmie said, as he 
clasped one of Annie’s hands in his own, and his voice 
expressed all the sorrow and tenderness he felt for Annie 
who continued: 

“ Such childish loves are usually short-lived, you know, 
but mine was the first pleasant dream I had known sinc€ 
my paronip dnid, and I went to my Aunt Belknap, in New 


396 


ROSE MATHER 


HaFcn. She meant to be kind, I suppose, and in a (5er* 
tain way she was. She gave me a good education, and 
every advantage within her means. She took me to 
Newport and Saratoga, and the New York hotels, and 
•he turned her back on George Graham, whom we met 
at Long Branch, where he was making some repairs upon 
an engine. A mechanic was not her idea of a husband 
for her niece. She preferred that I should marry a man 
of sixty, who had already the, portraits of three wives in 
his handsome house at Meriden; but then, for each por- 
trait he counted over two hundred thousand dollars, and 
half a milHon covers a multitude of defects and a 
great many wives. I would not marry that man, and as 
the result of my persistent refusal, my life with my aunt 
became so unbearable that, w'hen Providence again threw 
George in my way, and he asked me to be his wife, I 
consented, and I never regretted the step. He was very 
kind to me, and I loved him so much, that when he died, 
I thought my heart died too, for he was my all.” 

Annie was very beautiful in her excitement as she 
paid this tribute to her deceased husband, and Jimmie 
saw that she was beautiful, but felt relieved when she left 
George Graham, and spoke of Kose, who had come to 
her like an angel of light, and made the burden easier to 
bear. 

“ I had no suspicion that she was the soi-disant Dick 
Lee’s sister, or that my boy-hero was not Dick Lee, un- 
til just before you came home for the first time, and then 
I thought I must go away, for I did not care to meet 
you. But Bose prevented me, and I am glad now that 
ehe did.” 

“ And I am glad, too, Jimmie said. “ Your staying 
has been the means of untold good to me, darling, — it 
was the memory of your sweet, holy life and charactef 


A ^Tit fc 


89) 


wLich led me, a Tn-etcli at Andersonville, to seek tba 
Saviour wliom you have loved so long. God lias led ug 
both in strange paths. We have suffered a great deal, - 
you mentally, I physically, and only what I deserved; but 
let us hope that the night is passed, and the morning ol 
our happy future dawning upon us. We are both young 
yet, — you twenty- three, and I only twenty-six. We have 
a long life to look forward to, and I thank God for it ; 
but most of all, I thank Him for giving me my darling 
Annie, — my dear little Lulu I Does Kose know that you 
are Lulu ?” 

Mrs. Carleton had thought it better not to idd tc 
Rose’s excitement by telling her who Annie was, while 
Jimmie’s fate was shrouded in so much gloom; then, 
after his return, she decided that Annie should have the 
satisfaction of telling herself, and thus Rose was still in 
ignorance wdth regard to Annie’s identity with the Pe- 
quot. But Annie told her that night, and Rose’s eyes 
were like stai’s, as she smothered Annie with kisses, and 
declared it was all like some strange story she had read. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

OHABLIK 

did not improve as his sister and uncle hoped 
he might ; and as the cold weather increased, 
they began to talk of taking him to a warmer 
climate, but Charlie said: 

“ I am as weU here as I could be anywhere. I don’t 
want to be moved about. Let me stay here in quiet.” 

So they made him as comfortable as possible at the 



398 


ROSE MATHER. 


hotel, and Rose and Annie came every day to see him 
and he learned to watch and listen for their coming 
especially that of Annie, to whom he took the kindliest 
She knew just how to nurse him, and as she once cared 
for the poor prisoners, so she now cared for the Southern 
boy, who, while acknowledging the kindness of the 
Northern people, was still as thorough a Secessionist as 
he had ever been. Anxiously he waited for daily news of 
the progress of Grant’s army, refusing to believe that 
Lee was so closely shut up in Richmond that escape was 
impossible. Blindly, like many of his older brethren, he 
clung to the hope, that underlying the whole was some 
hidden motive which would in time appear and work 
good to his cause. Maude never opposed or disputed 
with him now, but read him every little item of good for 
the South. But when, in the spring, the 5ghting at Pe- 
tersburg commenced, there were no such items to read. 
Eind Charlie asked no longer for news. Then there came a 
never-to-be-forgotten day, when thi ough the length and 
breadth of the land, the glad tidings ran that Richmond 
had fallen; that Lee with his army was flying from the city, 
with Grant in hot pui'suit. The war was vii-tually over; 
and from Maine to Oregon the air was fllled with the 
jubilant notes of victory. For three long hours the bells 
of Rockland rang out their merry peals, and at night 
they kindled bonfires in the streets ; and on the grasa- 
plat by the well in Widow Simms’ yard, they burned 
the box, which, four years before, poor Isaac had put 
iway for just such an occasion as this. 

All the morning of that memorable Monday, while the 
bells were ringing, and the crowds were shouting in the 
streets, CharHe Be Vere had lain with his white face to 
the wall, and his lips quivering with the grief and morti* 
flcation he felt, that it should have ended thus. 


CHARLIE. 


m 


casionally, as iie shouts grew louder, he stopped his 
ears, so as to shut out what seemed to him like exulta- 
tions over the death of so many hopes; but wheu Annie 
came in, and told Maude of the bonfire they were to have 
'hat night in Mrs. Simms’ yard, and asked her to come 
for the sake of the boy whose box was to be burned, 
Charlie began to listen. And as he listened, he grew 
interested in Isaac Simms and the grass-plat by the 
well, and the box hidden in the barn, and he expressed a 
wish to he present when it was burned. Maude, too, had 
heard of Isaac Simms before. She knew that he had been 
captured by Arthur Tunbridge, but she did not know the 
particulars of his prison life, or how generously Tom had 
sacrificed his ehance of liberty for the sake of the poor, 
sick boy, until Annie told the story, to which she lis- 
tened with swimming eyes and a heart throbbing with 
love and respect for her lover, who had been so noble 
and unselfish. She would go to the bonfire on the 
grass-plat, she said; and Charlie should go too. He liad 
wept passionately at the recital of Isaac’s sufferings in 
Libby, but stiU found some excuse for the South gen- 
erally. 

“It was not the better class of people,” he said, “ who 
did these things; it was the lower, ignorant ones, whose 
instincts were naturally brutal.” 

And neither Maude nor Annie contradicted him, 
though the eyes of the former flashed indignantly, and 
her nostrils quivered as they always did when the s:iffer^ 
ings of our prisoners were mentioned in her presence. 

That night, when the stars came out over Rockland 
t party of twelve or more was congregated at the house 
of the widow Simms, where, but for the sad memory of 
Isaac, whose soldier-coat hung on the waU, with the knap- 
sack carried into battle, all would have been joy and hi- 


400 BOSE MATHER. 

larity at the prospect of certain peace. But death had 
been in that household, just as it had crept across many 
and many another threshold; and mingled with the re- 
joicings were tears and sad regrets for the dead of oui 
and, whose graves were everywhere, from the shadowy 
forests of Maine, and the vast prairies of the West, to the 
gunny plains of the South, where they fought and died. 
rhere were twenty-five buried in the Rockland grave- 
yard; and others than the party assembled at Mrs. 
Simms, thought of the vacant chairs at home, and the 
sleeping dead whose ears were deaf to the notes of peac^ 
floating so musically over the land. Charhe’s face was 
very white, and there were tears in his eyes as he laid hia 
thin, white hands reverently upon the box, examining its 
make, and bending close to the name, and date, and 
words cut upon it. — “ Isaac Simms, Rockland, April 25th, 

1861. This box to be burned ” There was a blank 

which the boy, who had cut the words with his jack-knife, 
could not supply. He did not know when the box would 
be burned. Then it was April, 1861; now it was April, 
1865. Four years of strife and bloodshed, thousands and 
thousands of desolate hearth-stones, and broken hearts, 
and hfeless forms both North and South, and the end 
had come at last. But the boy Isaac was not there to see 
it. It was not for him to fill up that blank ; but for the 
Southern boy, Charlie De Vere, who took his pencil from 
his pocket, and wrote, “ April 3d, 1865, to celebrate the feJa 
'f Richmond, and the end of the Confederacy. Charieg 
Pe Vere.” 

“ Who shall light the pile ?” Tom asked, when all waa 
ready. And Charlie answered, “ Let me, please. Siuely I 
may light the fire I” 

And he did hght it, and then, with the lest, looked on 
while the smoke and the flames curled up toward tin 


OHARLIK. 


401 


starry heavens where the boy Isaac had gone, and wheri 
Charlie in his dreams that night saw him so distinctly, 
and grasped his friendly hand. 

After that night, Charlie failed rapidly, and often ir 
his sleep, he talked to some one who seemed to be Ar- 
thur, and said it was “ a mistake, a dreadful mistake.** 
Ai last, as Maude sat by him one day, the fifth after the 
bonfire on the grass-plat, he said to her suddenly: 

Maude, if a man kills another and didn’t mean to, ia 
ctt murder T* 

“No, it is manslaughter. Why do you ask?” Maude 
said; and Charlie continued: 

“Don’t hate me, Maude, nor tell any body, for /killed 
.:iiihur, myself. I shot him right through the head, 
and — Maude, he thought it was you r 

“Oh I Charlie ! Charlie !” and Maude shrieked aloud as 
she bent over her brother, who continued: 

“Not when he died, but at first, when he lay there on 
the grass, moaning and looking at you so sorry and 
grieved Hke, don’t you remember ?” 

“Yes!” Maude gasped; and Charlie went on: 

“ You know that one of the ruffians fired at Captain 
Carleton and hit you, and then I could not help paying 
him back. He was taller than Arthur, who stood behind 
him, and knocked him down in time to take the ball him- 
I'lf. He knew you had a revolver, and he thought it 
was you, though an accident, of course, and it made hi 
lo sorry that you should be the one to loll him. But 
tcH him different; when I whispered to him, you know 
Z said it was I, and his eyes put on such a happy look, 
t know he forgave me, for he said so; but my heaH haj 
achect^^ever since with thinking about it. I could not for- 
get it; and I’ve asked God to forgive me so many times, 
r think he has; and that when I die, I shall go where 


m 


ROSE MATHER. 


Isaac Simms has gone. I like him, Maude, if he was i 
Yankee, and fought against us; and I like Mrs. Graham 
so much; and Mr. James Carleton, and the Mathers, and 
Mrs. Simms, some; but I can’t like that dreadful Bill Ba- 
ker, with his slang words and vulgar ways; he makes me 
sick, and I feci so ashamed that we should be beaten 
by such as he.” 

You were not beaten by such as he I You are mis- 
taken, Charlie! The Northern army was composed oJ 
many of the noblest men in the world. There are Bdl 
Bakers everywhere, as many South as North. It is fool 
ish to think otherwise.” 

Maude was growing hot and eloquent in her defense 
of the Northern army, but Charlie’s gentle, low-spoken . 
reply, stopped her: t-: 

“Perhaps it is. I got terribly perplexed thinking it« 
all ove^, and how it has turned out. I think — yes, I 
know I am glad the negroes are free. We .never abused 
them. Uncle Paul never abused them. But there were 
those who did; and if slavery is a Divine institution, .^s 
we are taught to believe, it was a broken down and ; 
badly conducted institution, and not at all as God meafot 
it to be managed.” ‘ 

Charhe paused a moment, and when he spoke agajji, 
it was of Turn, who had been so kind to him. 

“ He is like a brother to me, Maude, and I am glad you 
\re to be his wife. And Maude, don’t wait after I am 
lead, but marry Captain Carleton at once. You will b« 
liappier then.” 

With tears and kisses Maude bent over^her brother, 
*fho after that confession seemed so much brighter 
ind more cheerful, that hope sometimes whispered t« 
Maude that he would live. Annie was almost constantly 
with him now. He felt better and stronger with her, hi 


CHARLIE. 


403 


■aid, and death was not so terrible. Bo, just as she had 
soothed, and comforted, and nursed many a poor fellow 
from Andersonville, Annie comforted and nursed Chaih’c 
De Yere, until that dreadful Saturday when the tele- 
graphic wires brought up from the South the appallirg 
news that our President was dead, — murdered by tha 
assassin’s hand. 

“No, no, not that. We did not do that,” Charlie 
cried, with a look of horror in his blue eyes when he 
heard the dreadful story, and that the Southern leaders 
were suspected of complicity in the murder. 

“ It would make me a Unionist, if I believed my peo- 
ple capable of that; but they are not, — it cannot be,** 
Charlie kept repeating to himself, while the great drops 
of sweat stood upon his white forehead, and his pulse 
:s,nd heart beat so rapidly, that Maude sammoned the at- 
tending physician, who shook his head doubtfully at the 
great change for the worse in his patient. 

“ I had hcped at least to keep him tiJ the warm weath- 
er, but, I am afraid those bells will be the death of him,*’ 
he said, as he saw how Charlie shivert d and moaned with 
ea'. h sound of the tolling bells. 

•Perhaps they would stop if you were to ask them, 
an < tell them why,” Annie suggested to Maude; but 
Charlie, who heard it, exclaimed, 

“ No, let them toll on. It is proper they should mourn 
for him. The South would do the same if it was our 
President who had been murdered.” 

So the beUs tolled on, and the public buddings were 
draped in mourning, and the windows of Charlie’s room 
were festooned with black, and he watched the sombre 
drapery as it swayed in the Aprd wind, and talked of the 
terrible deed, and the war which was ended, and the 
world to which so many thousands had gone during the 
long four years of strife and bloodshed. 




404 ROSE MATHER. 

" I ehall be there to-morrow,” he said, “ and then per 
haps I shall Imow why all this has been done, and if w€ 
were so wrong.” 

Maude and Annie, Paul Haverill and Tom Carlctor 
watched with him through the night, and just as tljic 
Jieautiful Easter morning broke, and the sunlight fell 
upon the Rockland hills, the boy who to the last had re- 
mained true to the Southern cause, lay dead among the 
people who had been his foes. 

At Maude’s request they buried him by the side of 
Isaac Simms, and Capt. Carleton ordered a handsome 
monument, on which the names of both the boys were cut, 
Isaac Simms, who had died for the North, and Charlie 
De Vere, 'svho, if need be, would have given his life for 
the South, each holding entirely different political senti- 
ments, but both holding the same living faith which 
made for them an entrance to the world where all is per- 
feet peace, and w^here we who now see through a glass 
darkly shall then see face to face, and know why these 
things are so. 


Six months had passed since Charlie De Vere died. 
Paul Haverill, WiU Mather, and Captain Carleton had 
been together on a pilgrimage to Paul’s old neighbor- 
hood, where the people, wiser grown, welcomed back 
their old friend and neighbor, and strove in various ways 
to atone for all which had been cruel and harsh in their 
former dealing toward him. The war had left them 
destitute, so far as negroes and money were concerned; 
but such as they had they freely offered Paul, entreatkag 
him to stay in their midst and rebuild the hor^'" 
whose blackened ruins bore testimony to w» *i 

passions w*!! lead them to do when roused sl ^ 


CHARLIK 


405 


trolled. But Paul said no; he could never again live 
where there was so much to remind him of the past. A 
little way out of Nashville was a beautiful dwelling-house^ 
which, with a few acres of highly cidtivated land, was 
offered for sale. 

Maude had spoken of the place when she was in tbfl 
eity, and had said: 

*‘I should Hke to live there.” 

And Tom had remembered it; and when he found it 
for sale, he suggested to Mr. Haverill that they buy it as 
a winter residence for Maude. And so what httle 
property Paul HaveriU had left was invested in Fair Oaks, 
as the place was called; and Tom gave orders that the 
house should be refurnished and ready for himself and 
bride as early as the first of November. 

As far as was possible. Will and Tom found and genei 
ously rewarded those who had so kindly befriended then: 
in their perilous journey, across the mountains. 

But some were missing, and only their graves remained 
to teU the story of their wrongs. 

xhis trip was made in Jime, and early in August, the 
whole Carleton family went to New London, where 
Jimmie improved so fast that few would have recognized 
the pale, thin invalid, of Andersonville notoriety, in the 
active, red-cheeked, saucy-eyed young man, who became 
the life of the Pequot House, and for whom the gay belles 
practiced their most bewitching coquetries. 

But these were aU lost on Jimmie, who was seldom 
many minutes away from the fair, blue-eyed woman 
who, the girls had learned, was a widow, and of whon 
they at had no fears. But they changed their minds 
WteD >r day saw the “handsome Carleton at 

h^r ; night after night found him wahdng with 

he- alon^ road, or sitting on the rrcks and watching 


t06 


ROSE MATHER, 


the tide come in, just as he had done years ago, whe« 
both were younger than they were now. They lived 
those days over again, and, in their perfect happiness, 
almost forgot the sorrow and pain which had come tc: 
them both since they first looked out upon the waters oi 
New London bay. 

Tom and Maude were there, too, together with Rose 
Mather and Will, and Susan Simms and John. 

A well-timed investment in oil stocky — a lucky turn of 
the wheel, — and Captain John Simms awoke, one morn- 
ing, with one hundred thousands dollars! He did not 
believe it at first, and Susan did not believe it either. 
But when John, who, with aU his good sense, was a little 
given to show, or, as his mother expressed it, “ to mak- 
ing a fool of himself,” brought her a set of diamonds, 
handsomer than Rose Mather’s, and bought her a new 
carriage, and took her to Saratoga, with an English 
nurse for little Ike, she began to reahze that something 
had happened to her which brought Rose Mather’s envied 
style of living within her means. 

She soon grew tired of Saratoga. She was too much 
alone in that great crowd, and when she heard that the 
Carletons were at New London she went there with her 
diamonds and horses, and, patronized by Rose, who 
took her at once under her protection, she made a few 
pleasant acquaintances, and ever after talked confi 
dently of her ‘‘summer at the sea-side.’* She did n<’‘ 
care to go again, however. “ She and John were not 
exactly hke people born to high life,” she said, and so 
she settled quietly down in her pretty home, and made, 
as the Widow Simms said, “quite a decent woman, con 
aiderin’ that she was one of them Ruggleses.” 

Bill Baker was astir very early one bright, October 
morning, his face indicating that some important ev ' 


CUARIiliija 


m 


fr»fl pending in wliicli lie was to act a part. It was a 
double wedding at St. Luke’s, and Maude and Annie wertf 
the brides. There was a great crowd to witness the cer- 
sraony, and Annie’s “ boys ” whom she had nursed at' An- 
napolis, were the first to offer their congratulationt>.toMrs 
I onies Carleton, who looked so fair and pure and lovely, 
while Maude, whose beauty was of a more brilliant order, 
aeemed to sparkle and flash as she bent her stately head 
in response to the greetings given to her. 

Upon Bill, who had turned hack-driver, devolved the 
honor of taking the bridal party to and from the church, 
and his horses were covered with the Federal flag, while 
conspicuous in his button-hcle was a small one made ol 
white silk and presented to him by a girl whom he called 
“Em,” and who blushed every time she heard Bill’s 
voice ordering the crowd to stand back and hia horses 
to “ show their oats,” as he drove from the church with 
the newly-married people. 

Their destination was Nashville, where, in Maude’s 
beautiful home, Jimmie and Annie passed a few delight- 
ful weeks, and then returned to Boston to the old Carle- 
ton house on Beacon Street, which had been fitted up for 
their reception. 

Mrs. Carleton, senior, divides her time between her 
throe childrem, Tom, Jimmie and Rose, but her home 
proper is with Annie, in Boston, where there is now a 
little “ Lulu Graham,” six months old, and where Rose 
wed Win often go, while each summer Tom Carh'ton 
K-mes up from Fair Oaks with his beautiful Maude, the 
I'iroinr of the Cumberland Mountains. 




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